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A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 


BY 

BRET  HARTE 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY,. 

.Ctc  iuticrsifce  ^Dress,  Camfcri&ge 


Copyright,  1890, 
BY  BRET  HARTE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Company. 


Ts 

W/3 
A  WAIF  OP  THE  PLAINS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  LONG  level  of  dull  gray  that  further 
away  became  a  faint  blue,  with  here  and 
there  darker  patches  that  looked  like  water. 
At  times  an  open  space,  blackened  and  burnt 
in  an  irregular  circle,  with  a  shred  of  news- 
paper, an  old  rag,  or  broken  tin  can  lying  in 
^  the  ashes.     Beyond  these  always  a  low  dark 
(  line  that  seemed  to  sink  into  the  ground  at 
7  night,  and  rose  again  in  the  morning  with 
^J  the  first  light,  but  never  otherwise  changed 
its  height  and  distance.     A  sense  of  always 
moving  with  some  indefinite  purpose,  but  of 
always  returning  at  night  to  the  same  place 
—  with  the  same  surroundings,   the  same 


4  A   WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

people,  the  same  bedclothes,  and  the  same 
awful  black  canopy  dropped  down  from 
above.  A  chalky  taste  of  dust  on  the  mouth 
and  lips,  a  gritty  sense  of  earth  on  the  fin- 
gers, and  an  all-pervading  heat  and  smell  of 
cattle. 

4  Tlus  was  "The  Great  Plains"  as  they 
seemed  to  two  children  from  the  hooded 
depth  of  an  emigrant  wagon,  above  the 
swaying  heads  of  toiling  oxen,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1852. 

It  had  appeared  so  to  them  for  two  weeks, 
always  the  same  and  always  without  the 
least  sense  to  them  of  wonder  or  monotony. 
When  they  viewed  it  from  the  road,  walking 
beside  the  wagon,  there  was  only  the  team 
itself  added  to  the  unvarying  picture.  One 
of  the  wagons  bore  on  its  canvas  hood  the 
inscription,  in  large  black  letters,  "  Off  to 
California !  "  on  the  other  "  Koot,  Hog,  or 
Die,"  but  neither  of  them  awoke  in  the 
minds  .of  the  children  the  faintest  idea  of 
playfulness  or  jocularity.  Perhaps  it  was 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  5 

difficult  to  connect  the  serious  men,  who 
occasionally  walked  beside  them  and  seemed 
to  grow  more  taciturn  and  depressed  as  the 
day  wore  on,  with  this  past  effusive  pleas- 
antry. 

Yet  the  impressions  of  the  two  children  dif- 
fered slightly.  The  jeldest,  a  boy  of  eleven, 
was  apparently  new  to  the  domestic  habits 
and  customs  of  a  life  to  which  the  younger, 
a  girl  of  seven,  was  evidently  native  and 
familiar.  The  food  was  coarse  and  less  skill- 
fully prepared  than  that  to  which  he  had 
been  accustomed.  There  was  a  certain  free- 
dom and  roughness  in  their  intercourse,  a 
simplicity  that  bordered  almost  on  rudeness 
in  their  domestic  arrangements,  and  a  speech 
that  was  at  times  almost  untranslatable  to 
him.  He  slept  in  his  clothes,  wrapped  up 
in  blankets ;  he  was  conscious  that  in  the 
matter  of  cleanliness  he  was  left  to  himself 
to  overcome  the  difficulties  of  finding  water 
and  towels.  But  it  is  doubtful  if  in  his 
youthfulness  it  affected  him  more  than  a 


6  A    WAIF  OF  TEE  PLAINS. 

novelty.  Hejitg.  and  slept  wfcll,  and  found 
his  life  amusing.  Only  at  times  the  rude- 
ness of  his  companions,  or,  worse,  an  indif- 
ference that  made  him  feel  his  dependency 
upon  them,  awoke  a  vague  sense  of  some 
wrong  that  had  been  done  to  him  which, 
while  it  was  voiceless  to  all  others  and  even 
uneasily  put  aside  by  himself,  was  still  al- 
ways slumbering  in  his  childish  conscious- 
ness. 

To  the  party'he  was  known  as  an  orphan 
put  on  the  itrain  at  "  St.  Jo  "  by  some  rela- 
tive of  his  stepmother,  to  be  delivered  to 
another  relative  at  Sacramento.  As  his  step- 
mother had  not  even  taken  leave  of  him,  but 
had  entrusted  his  departure  to  the  relative 
with  whom  he  had  been  lately  living,  it  was 
considered  as  an  act  of  "  riddance,"  and 
accepted  as  such  by  her  party,  and  even 
vaguely  acquiesced  in  by  the  boy  himself. 
What  consideration  had  been  offered  for  his 
passage  he  did  not  know ;  he  only  remem- 
bered that  he  had  been  told  "  to  make  him- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  1 

self  handy."  This  he  had  done  cheerfully,  if 
at  times  with  the  unskillf  uliiess  of  a  novice ; 
but  it  was  not  a  peculiar  or  a  menial  task  in 
a  company  where  all  took  part  in  manual 
labor,  and  where  existence  seemed  to  him 
to  bear  the  charm  of  a  prolonged  picnic. 
Neither  was  he  subjected  to  any  difference 
of  affection  or  treatment  from  Mrs.  Silsbee, 
the  mother  of  his  little  companion,  and  the 
wife  of  the  leader  of  the  train.  Prematurely 
old,  of  ill-health,  and  harassed  with  cares, 
she  had  no  time  to  waste  in  discriminating 
maternal  tenderness  for  her  daughter,  but 
treated  the  children  with  equal  and  un- 
biased querulousness. 

The  rear  wagon  creaked,  swayed,  and 
rolled  on  slowly  and  heavily.  The  hoofs  of 
the  draft-oxen,  occasionally  striking  in  the 
dust  with  a  dull  report,  sent  little  puffs  like 
smoke  on  either  side  of  the  track.  Within, 
the  children  were  playing  "  keeping  store." 
The  little  girl,  as  an  opulent  and  extrava- 
gant customer,  was  purchasing  of  the  boy, 


8  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

who  sat  behind  a  counter  improvised  from 
a  nail -keg  and  the  front  seat,  most  of 
the  available  contents  of  the  wagon,  either 
under  their  own  names  or  an  imaginary  one 
as  the  moment  suggested,  and  paying  for 
them  in  the  easy  and  liberal  currency  of 
dried  beans  and  bits  of  paper.  Change  was 
given  by  the  expeditious  method  of  tearing 
the  paper  into  smaller  fragments.  The  dim- 
inution of  stock  was  remedied  by  buying  the 
same  article  over  again  under  a  different 
name.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  these  fa- 
vorable commercial  conditions,  the  market 
seemed  dull. 

"  I  can  show  you  a  fine  quality  of  sheet- 
ing at  four  cents  a  yard,  double  width,"  said 
the  boy,  rising  and  leaning  on  his  fingers  on 
the  counter  as  he  had  seen  the  shopmen  do. 
"  All  wool  and  will  wash,"  he  added,  with 
easy  gravity. 

"  I  can  buy  it  cheaper  at  Jackson's,"  said 
the  girl,  with  the  intuitive  duplicity  of  her 
bargaining  sex. 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  9 

"Very  well,"  said  the  boy.  "I  won't 
play  any  more." 

"  Who  cares  ?  "  said  the  girl  indifferently. 

The  boy  here  promptly  upset  the  counter ; 
the  rolled-up  blanket  which  had  deceitfully 
represented  the  desirable  sheeting  falling  on 
the  wagon  floor.  It  apparently  suggested 
a  new  idea  to  the  former  salesman.  "  I  say ! 
let 's  play  '  damaged  stock.'  See,  I  '11  tum- 
ble all  the  things  down  here  right  on  top  o' 
the  others,  and  sell  'em  for  less  than  cost." 

The  girl  looked  up.  The  suggestion  was 
bold,  bad,  and  momentarily  attractive.  But 
she  only  said  "  No,"  apparently  from  habit, 
picked  up  her  doll,  and  the  boy  clambered 
to  the  front  of  the  wagon.  The  incom- 
plete episode  terminated  at  once  with  that 
perfect  forgetfulness,  indifference,  and  irre- 
sponsibility common  to  all  young  animals. 
If  either  could  have  flown  away  or  bounded 
off  finally  at  that  moment,  they  would  have 
done  so  with  no  more  concern  for  prelimi- 
nary detail  than  a  bird  or  squirrel.  The 


10  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

wagon  rolled  steadily  on.  The  boy  could  see 
that  one  of  their  teamsters  had  climbed  up 
on  the  tail-board  of  the  preceding  vehicle. 
The  other  seemed  to  be  walking  in  a  dusty 
sleep. 

"  Kla'uns,"  said  the  girl. 

The  boy,  without  turning  his  head,  re- 
sponded, "  Susy." 

"  Wot  are  you  going  to  be  ? "  said  the 
girl. 

"  Goin'  to  be  ?  "  repeated  Clarence. 

"  When  you  is  growed,"  explained  Susy. 

Clarence  hesitated.  His  settled  deter- 
mination had  been  to  become  a  pirate,  mer- 
ciless yet  discriminating.  But  reading  in  a 
bethumbed  "  Guide  to  the  Plains "  that 
morning  of  Fort  Laramie  and  Kit  Carson, 
he  had  decided  upon  the  career  of  a  "  scout," 
as  being  more  accessible  and  requiring  less 
water.  Yet,  out  of  compassion  for  Susy's 
possible  ignorance,  he  said  neither,  and  re- 
sponded with  the  American  boy's  modest 
conventionality,  "  President."  It  was  safe, 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  H 

required  no  embarrassing  description,  and 
had  been  approved  by  benevolent  old  gentle- 
men with  their  hands  on  his  head. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  be  a  parson's  wife,"  said 
Susy,  "and  keep  hens,  and  have  things  giv' 
to  me.  Baby  clothes,  and  apples,  and  apple 
sass  —  and  melasses  !  and  more  baby  clothes ! 
and  pork  when  you  kill." 

She  had  thrown  herself  at  the  bottom  of 
the  wagon,  with  her  back  towards  him  and 
her  doll  in  her  lap.  He  could  see  the  curve 
of  her  curly  head,  and  beyond,  her  bare 
dimpled  knees,  which  were  raised,  and  over 
which  she  was  trying  to  fold  the  hem  of  her 
brief  skirt. 

"  I  would  n't  be  a  President's  wife,"  she 
said  presently. 

"  You  could  n't !  " 

"Could  if  I  wanted  to!" 

"Couldn't!" 

"Could  now!" 

"Couldn't!" 

"Why?" 


12  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

Finding  it  difficult  to  explain  his  convic- 
tions of  her  ineligibility,  Clarence  thought  it 
equally  crushing  not  to  give  any.  There  was 
a  long  silence.  It  was  very  hot  and  dusty. 
The  wagon  scarcely  seemed  to  move.  Clar- 
ence gazed  at  the  vignette  of  the  track  be- 
hind them  formed  by  the  hood  of  the  rear. 
Presently  he  rose  and  walked  past  her  to 
the  tail-board.  "Goin'  to  get  down,"  he 
said,  putting  his  legs  over. 

"  Maw  says  '  No,'  "  said  Susy. 

Clarence  did  not  reply,  but  dropped  to  the 
ground  beside  the  slowly  turning  wheels. 
Without  quickening  his  pace  he  could  easily 
keep  his  hand  on  the  tail-board. 

"  Kla'uns." 

He  looked  up. 

"  Take  me." 

She  had  already  clapped  on  her  sun-bon- 
net and  was  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  tail- 
board, her  little  arms  extended  in  such  per- 
fect confidence  of  being  caught  that  the  boy 
could  not  resist.  He  caught  her  cleverly. 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  13 

They  halted  a  moment  and  let  the  lumbering 
vehicle  move  away  from  them,  as  it  swayed 
from  side  to  side  as  if  laboring  in  a  heavy 
sea.  They  remained  motionless  until  it  had 
reached  nearly  a  hundred  yards,  and  then, 
with  a  sudden  half-real,  half-assumed,  but 
altogether  delightful  trepidation,  ran  for- 
ward and  caught  up  with  it  again.  This 
they  repeated  two  or  three  times  until  both 
themselves  and  the  excitement  were  ex- 
hausted, and  they  again  plodded  on  hand  in 
hand.  Presently  Clarence  uttered  a  cry. 

"  My !  Susy  —  look  there  !  " 

The  rear  wagon  had  once  more  slipped 
away  from  them  a  considerable  distance. 
Between  it  and  them,  crossing  its  track,  a 
most  extraordinary  creature  had  halted. 

At  first  glance  it  seemed  a  dog  —  a  dis- 
comfited, shameless,  ownerless  outcast  of 
streets  and  byways,  rather  than  an  honest 
stray  of  some  drover's  train.  It  was  so 
gaunt,  so  dusty,  so  greasy,  so  slouching,  and 
so  lazy !  But  as  they  looked  at  it  more 


14  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

intently  they  saw  that  the  grayish  hair  of  its 
back  had  a  bristly  ridge,  and  there  were  great 
poisonous-looking  dark  blotches  on  its  flanks, 
and  that  the  slouch  of  its  haunches  was  a 
peculiarity  of  its  figure,  and  not  the  cower- 
ing of  fear.  As  it  lifted  its  suspicious  head 
towards  them  they  could  see  that  its  thin 
lips,  too  short  to  cover  its  white  teeth,  were 
curled  in  a  perpetual  sneer. 

"  Here,  doggie  !  "  said  Clarence  excitedly. 
"  Good  dog  !  Come." 

Susy  burst  into  a  triumphant  laugh.  "  Et 
tain't  no  dog,  silly ;  it 's  er  coyote." 

Clarence  blushed.  It  was  n't  the  first  time 
the  pioneer's  daughter  had  shown  her  su- 
perior knowledge.  He  said  quickly,  to  hide 
his  discomfiture,  "  I  '11  ketch  him,  any  way ; 
he  's  nothin'  mor'n  a  ki  yi." 

"  Ye  can't,  tho,"  said  Susy,  shaking  her 
sun-bonnet.  "  He 's  faster  nor  a  boss !  " 

Nevertheless,  Clarence  ran  towards  him, 
followed  by  Susy.  When  they  had  come 
within  twenty  feet  of  him,  the  lazy  creature, 


A   WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  15 

without  apparently  the  least  effort,  took  two 
or  three  limping  bounds  to  one  side,  and  re- 
mained at  the  same  distance  as  before.  They 
repeated  this  onset  three  or  four  times  with 
more  or  less  excitement  and  hilarity,  the 
animal  evading  them  to  one  side,  but  never 
actually  retreating  before  them.  Finally,  it 
occurred  to  them  both  that  although  they 
were  not  catching  him  they  were  not  driving 
him  away.  The  consequences  of  that  thought 
were  put  into  shape  by  Susy  with  round-eyed 
significance. 

"  Kla'uns,  he  bites." 

Clarence  picked  up  a  hard  sun-baked  clod/^ 
and,  running  forward,  threw  it  at  the  coyote.  / 
It  was  a  clever  shot,  and  struck  him  on  his 
slouching  haunches.     He  snapped,  and  gave 
a  short  snarling  yelp,  and  vanished.     Clar- 
ence returned  with  a  victorious  air  to   his 
companion.     But  she  was  gazing  intently  in 
the  opposite  direction,  and  for  the  first  time 
he  discovered  that  the  coyote  had  been  lead- 
ing them  half  round  a  circle. 


16  A    WAIF  OF  TEE  PLAINS. 

"Kla'uns,"  says  Susy,  with  a  hysterical 
little  laugh. 

"Well?" 

/   "  The  wagon  *s  gone." 

^"}  Clarence  started.  It  was  true.  Not  only 
/their  wagon,  but  the  whole  train  of  oxen 
and  teamsters  had  utterly  disappeared,  van- 
ishing as  completely  as  if  they  had  been 
caught  up  in  a  whirlwind  or  engulfed  in  the 
earth !  Even  the  low  cloud  of  dust  that 
usually  marked  their  distant  course  by  day 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  long  level 
plain  stretched  before  them  to  the  setting 
sun,  without  a  sign  or  trace  of  moving  life 
or  animation.  That  great  blue  crystal  bowl, 
filled  with  dust  and  fire  by  day,  with  stars 
and  darkness  by  night,  which  .had  always 
seemed  to  drop  its  rim  round  them  every- 
where and  shut  them  in,  seemed  to  them  now 
to  have  been  lifted  to  let  the  train  pass  out, 
and  then  closed  down  upon  them  forever. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THEIR  first  sensation  was  one  of  purely 
animal  freedom. 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  sparkling 
«yes  and  long  silent  breaths.  But  this  spon~ 
Itaneous  outburst  of  savage  nature  soon 
passed.  Susy's  little  hand  presently  reached 
forward  and  clutched  Clarence's  jacket.  The 
boy  understood  it,  and  said  quickly,  — 

"  They  ain't  gone  far,  and  they  '11  stop  as 
soon  as  they  find  us  gone." 

They  trotted  on  a  little  faster;  the  sun 
they  had  followed  every  day  and  the  fresh 
wagon  tracks  being  their  unfailing  guides ; 
the  keen,  cool  air  of  the  plains,  taking  the 
place  of  that  all-pervading  dust  and  smell 
of  the  perspiring  oxen,  invigorating  them 
with  its  breath. 

"  We  ain't  skeered  a  bit,  are  we  ?  "  said 
Susy. 


18  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  What 's  there  to  be  afraid  of  ?  "  said 
Clarence  scornfully.  He  said  this  none  the 
less  strongly  because  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  they  had  been  often  left  alone  in 
the  wagon  for  hours  without  being  looked 
after,  and  that  their  absence  might  not  be 
noticed  until  the  train  stopped  to  encamp  at 
dusk,  two  hours  later.  They  were  not  run- 
ning very  fast,  yet  either  they  were  more 
tired  than  they  knew,  or  the  air  was  thinner, 
for  they  both  seemed  to  breathe  quickly. 
Suddenly  Clarence  stopped. 

"  There  they  are  now." 

He  was  pointing  to  a  light  cloud  of  dust 
in  the  far-off  horizon,  from  which  the  black 
hulk  of  a  wagon  emerged  for  a  moment  and 
was  lost.  But  even  as  they  gazed  the  cloud 
seemed  to  sink  like  a  fairy  mirage  to  the 
earth  again,  the  whole  train  disappeared, 
and  only  the  empty  stretching  track  returned. 
They  did  not  know  that  this  seemingly  flat 
and  level  plain  was  really  undulatory,  and 
that  the  vanished  train  had  simply  dipped 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  19 

below  their  view  on  some  further  slope  even 
as  it  had  once  before.  But  they  knew  they 
were  disappointed,  and  that  disappointment 
revealed  to  them  the  fact  that  they  had  con- 
cealed it  from  each  other.  The  girl  was  the 
first  to  succumb,  and  burst  into  a  quick 
spasm  of  angry  tears.  That  single  act  of 
weakness  called  out  the  boy's  pride  and 
strength.  There  was  no  longer  an  equality 
of  suffering  ;  he  had  become  her  protector  ; 
he  felt  himself  responsible  for  both.  Con- 
sidering her  no  longer  his  equal,  he  was  no 
longer  frank  with  her. 

"  There  's  nothin'  to  boo-hoo  for,"  he  said, 
with  a  half-affected  brusqueness.  "  So  quit, 
now !  They  '11  stop  in  a  minit,  and  send 
some  one  back  for  us.  Should  n't  wonder  if 
they  're  doin'  it  now." 

/      But   Susy,  with  feminine    discrimination 

J  detecting  the  hollow  ring  in  his  voice,  here 

/  threw  herself  upon  him  and  began  to  beat 

him  violently  with  her  little  fists.     "  They 

ain't !    They  ain't  I    They  ain't !    You  know 


20  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

it !  How  dare  you  ?  "  Then,  exhausted  with 
her  struggles,  she  suddenly  threw  herself  flat 
on  the  dry  grass,  shut  her  eyes  tightly,  and 
clutched  at  the  stubble. 

"  Get  up,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  pale,  de- 
termined face  that  seemed  to  have  got  much 
older. 

"  You  leave  me  be,"  said  Susy. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  away  and  leave 
you  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

Susy  opened  one  blue  eye  furtively  in  the 
secure  depths  of  her  sun-bonnet,  and  gazed 
at  his  changed  face. 

"  Ye-e-s." 

He  pretended  to  turn  away,  but  really  to 
look  at  the  height  of  the  sinking  sun. 

"  Kla'uns  ! " 

"Well?" 

"  Take  me." 

She  was  holding  up  her  hands.  He  lifted 
her  gently  in  his  arms,  dropping  her  head 
over  his  shoulder.  "  Now,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully, "  you  keep  a  good  lookout  that  way, 
and  I  this,  and  we  '11  soon  be  there." 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  21 

The  idea  seemed  to  please  her.  After 
Clarence  had  stumbled  on  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, she  said,  "  Do  you  see  anything, 
Kla'uns?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"  No  more  don't  I."  This  equality  of 
perception  apparently  satisfied  her.  Pres- 
ently she  lay  more  limp  in  his  arms.  She 
was  asleep. 

The  sun  was  sinking  lower ;  it  had  already 
touched  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  and  was 
level  with  his  dazzled  and  straining  eyes. 
At  times  it  seemed  to  impede  his  eager 
search  and  task  his  vision.  Haze  and  black 
spots  floated  across  the  horizon,  and  round 
wafers,  like  duplicates  of  the  sun,  glittered 
back  from  the  dull  surface  of  the  plains. 
Then  he  resolved  to  look  no  more  until  he 
had  counted  fifty,  a  hundred,  but  always 
with  the  same  result,  the  return  of  the  empty, 
unending  plains  —  the  disk  growing  redder 
as  it  neared  the  horizon,  the  fire  it  seemed 
to  kindle  as  it  sank,  but  nothing  more  ! 


V 

22  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

Staggering  under  his  burden,  he  tried  to 
distract  himself  by  fancying  how  the  dis- 
covery of  their  absence  would  be  made.  He 
heard  the  listless,  half-querulous  discussion 
about  the  locality  that  regularly  pervaded 
the  nightly  camp.  He  heard  the  discon- 
tented voice  of  Jake  Silsbee  as  he  halted 
beside  their  wagon,  and  said,  "  Come  out  o' 
that  now,  you  two,  and  mighty  quick  about 
it."  He  heard  the  command  harshly  re- 
peated. He  saw  the  look  of  irritation  on 
Silsbee's  dusty,  bearded  face,  that  followed 
his  hurried  glance  into  the  empty  wagon. 
He  heard  the  query,  "  What 's  gone  o'  them 
limbs  now  ?  "  handed  from  wagon  to  wagon. 
He  heard  a  few  oaths ;  Mrs.  Silsbee's  high 
rasping  voice,  abuse  of  himself,  .the  hurried 
and  discontented  detachment  of  a  search 
party,  Silsbee  and  one  of  the  hired  men,  and 
vociferation  and  blame.  Blame  always  for 
himself,  the  elder,  who  might  have  "  known 
better !  "  A  little  fear,  perhaps,  but  he 
could  not  fancy  either  pity  or  commisera- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  23 

tion.  Perhaps  the  thought  upheld  his  pride ; 
under  the  prospect  of  sympathy  he  might 
have  broken  down. 

At  last  he  stumbled,  and  stopped  to  keep  ^i 
himself  from  falling  forward  on  his  face.  \ 
He  could  go  no  further ;  his  breath  was 
spent ;  he  was  dripping  with  perspiration ; 
his  legs  were  trembling  under  him  ;  there 
was  a  roaring  in  his  ears ;  round  red  disks 
of  the  sun  were  scattered  everywhere  around 
him  like  spots  of  blood.  To  the  right  of 
the  trail  there  seemed  to  be  a  slight  mound, 
where  he  could  rest  awhile,  and  yet  keep  his 
watchful  survey  of  the  horizon.  But  on 
reaching  it  he  found  that  it  was  only  a 
tangle  of  taller  mesquite  grass,  into  which 
he  sank  with  his  burden.  Nevertheless,  if 
useless  as  a  point  of  vantage,  it  afforded  a 
soft  couch  for  Susy,  who  seemed  to  have 
fallen  quite  naturally  into  her  usual  after- 
noon siesta,  and  in  a  measure  it  shielded  her 
from  a  cold  breeze  that  had  sprung  up  from 
the  west.  Utterly  exhausted  himself,  but 


24  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

not  daring  to  yield  to  the  torpor  that  seemed 
to  be  creeping  over  him,  Clarence  half  sat, 
half  knelt  down  beside  her,  supporting  him- 
self with  one  hand,  and,  partly  hidden  in 
the  long  grass,  kept  his  straining  eyes  fixed 
on  the  lonely  track. 

The  red  disk  was  sinking  lower.  It  seemed 
to  have  already  crumbled  away  a  part  of  the 
distance  with  its  eating  fires.  As  it  sank 
still  lower,  it  shot  out  long,  luminous  rays, 
diverging  fan-like  across  the  plain,  as  if,  in 
the  boy's  excited  fancy,  it  too  were  search- 
ing for  the  lost  estrays.  And  as  one  long 
beam  seemed  to  linger  over  his  hiding-place, 
he  even  thought  that  it  might  serve  as  a 
guide  to  Silsbee  and  the  other  seekers,  and 
was  constrained  to  stagger  to  his  feet,  erect 
in  its  light.  But  it  soon  sank,  and  with  it 
Clarence  dropped  back  again  to  his  crouch- 
ing watch.  Yet  he  knew  that  the  daylight 
was  still  good  for  an  hour,  and  with  the 
withdrawal  of  that  mystic  sunset  glory  ob- 
jects became  even  more  distinct  and  sharply 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  25 

defined  than  at  any  other  time.  And  with 
the  merciful  sheathing  of  that  flaming  sword 
which  seemed  to  have  waved  between  him 
and  the  vanished  train,  his  eyes  already  felt 
a  blessed  relief. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WITH  the  setting  of  the  sun  an  ominous 
silence  fell.  He  could  hear  the  low  breath- 
ing of  Susy,  and  even  fancied  he  could  hear 
the  beating  of  his  own  heart  in  that  oppres- 
sive hush  of  all  nature.  For  the  day's  march 
had  always  been  accompanied  by  the  monot- 
onous creaking  of  wheels  and  axles,  and 
even  the  quiet  of  the  night  encampment  had 
been  always  more  or  less  broken  by  the 
movement  of  unquiet  sleepers  on  the  wagon 
beds,  or  the  breathing  of  the  cattle.  But 
here  there  was  neither  sound  nor  motion. 
Susy's  prattle,  and  even  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice,  would  have  broken  the  benumb- 
ing spell,  but  it  was  part  of  his  growing  self- 
denial  now  that  he  refrained  from  waking 
her  even  by  a  whisper.  She  would  awaken 
soon  enough  to  thirst  and  hunger,  perhaps, 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  27 

and  then  what  was  he  to  do  ?  If  that  looked- 
f  or  help  would  only  come  now  —  while  she 
still  slept.  For  it  was  part  of  his  boyish 
fancy  that  if  he  could  deliver  her  asleep,  and 
undemonstrative  of  fear  and  suffering,  he 
would  be  less  blameful,  and  she  less  mindful 
of  her  trouble.  If  it  did  not  come  —  but  he 
would  not  think  of  that  yet !  If  she  was 
thirsty  meantime  —  well,  it  might  rain,  and 
there  was  always  the  dew  which  they  used  to 
brush  off  the  morning  grass  ;  he  would  take 
off  his  shirt  and  catch  it  in  that,  like  a  ship- 
wrecked mariner.  It  would  be  funny,  and 
make  her  laugh.  For  himself  he  would  not 
laugh ;  he  felt  he  was  getting  very  old  and 
grown  up  in  this  loneliness. 

It  was  getting  darker  —  they  should  be 
looking  into  the  wagons  now.  A  new  doubt 
began  to  assail  him.  Ought  he  not,  now  that 
he  was  rested,  make  the  most  of  the  remain- 
ing moments  of  daylight,  and  before  the 
glow  faded  from  the  west,  when  he  would  no 
longer  have  any  bearings  to  guide  him  ?  But 


28  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

there  was  always  the  risk  of  waking  her !  — 
to  what?  The^4ear  of  being  confronted 
again  with  her  fear,  and  of  being  unable  to 
pacify  her,  at  last  decided  him  to  remain. 
But  he  crept  softly  through  the  grass,  and 
in  the  dust  of  the  track  traced  the  four 
points  of  the  compass,  as  he  would  still  de- 
termine them  by  the  sunset  light,  with  a 
large  printed  W  to  indicate  the  west !  This 
boyish  contrivance  particularly  pleased  him. 
If  he  had  only  had  a  pole,  a  stick,  or  even  a 
twig,  on  which  to  tie  his  handkerchief  and 
erect  it  above  the  clump  of  mesquite  as  a 
signal  to  the  searchers  in  case  he  should  be 
overcome  by  fatigue  or  sleep,  he  would  have 
been  happy.  But  the  plain  was  barren  of 
brush  or  timber ;  he  did  not  dream  that  this 
omission  and  the  very  unobtrusiveness  of  his 
hiding-pjace  would  be  his  salvation  from  a 
greater  danger. 

With  the  coming  darkness  the  wind  arose 
and  swept  the  plain  with  a  long-drawn  sigh. 
This  increased  to  a  murmur,  till  presently 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  29 

the  whole  expanse — before  sunk  in  awful 
silence  —  seemed  to  awake  with  vague  com- 
plaints, incessant  sounds,  and  low  meanings. 
At  times  he  thought  he  heard  the  halloaing 
of  distant  voices,  at  times  it  seemed  as  a 
whisper  in  Ms  own  ear.  In  the  silence  that 
followed  each  blast  he  fancied  he  could  de- 
tect the  creaking  of  the  wagon,  the  dull 
thud  of  the  oxen's  hoofs,  or  broken  frag- 
ments of  speech,  blown  and  scattered  even 
as  he  strained  his  ears  to  listen  by  the  next 
gust.  This  tension  of  the  ear  began  to  con- 
•  fuse  his  brain,  as  his  eyes  had  been  pre- 
viously dazzled  by  the  sunlight,  and  a  strange 
torpor  began  to  steal  over  his  faculties. 
Once  or  twice  his  head  dropped. 

He  awoke  with  a  start.  A  moving  figure  / 
had  suddenly  uplifted  itself  between  him 
and  the  horizon  I  It  was  not  twenty  yards 
away,  so  clearly  outlined  against  the  still 
luminous  sky  that  it  seemed  even  nearer.  A 
human  figure,  but  so  disheveled,  so  fantas- 
tic, and  yet  so  mean  and  puerile  in  its 


30  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

extravagance  that  it  seemed  the  outcome  of 
a  childish  dream.  It  was  a  mounted  figure, 
but  so  ludicrously  disproportionate  to  the 
pony  it  bestrode,  whose  slim  legs  were  stiffly 
buried  in  the  dust  in  a  breathless  halt,  that 
it  might  have  been  a  straggler  from  some 
vulgar  wandering  circus.  A  tall  hat,  crown- 
less  and  brimless,  a  castaway  of  civilization, 
surmounted  by  a  turkey's  feather,  was  on  its 
head  ;  over  its  shoulders  hung  a  dirty  tat- 
tered blanket  that  scarcely  covered  the  two 
painted  legs  which  seemed  clothed  in  soiled 
yellow  hose.  In  one  hand  it  held  a  gun  ;  thet 
other  was  bent  above  its  eyes  in  eager  scrutiny 
of  some  distant  point  beyond  and  east  of  the 
spot  where  the  children  lay  concealed.  Pres- 
ently, with  a  dozen  quick  noiseless  strides  of 
the  pony's  legs,  the  apparition  moved  to  the 
right,  its  gaze  still  fixed  on  that  mysterious 
part  of  the  horizon.  There  was  no  mistak- 
ing it  now  !  The  painted  Hebraic  face,  the 
large  curved  nose,  the  bony  cheek,  the  broad 
mouth,  the  shadowed  eyes,  the  straight  long 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  31 

matted  locks  !  It  was  an  Indian  !  Not  the 
picturesque  creature  of  Clarence's  imagina- 
tion, but  still  an  Indian !  The  boy  was  un- 
easy, suspicious,  antagonistic,  but  not  afraid. 
He  looked  at  the  heavy  animal  face  with  the 
superiority  of  intelligence,  at  the  half-naked 
figure  with  the  conscious  supremacy  of  dress, 
at  the  lower  individuality  with  the  contempt 
of  a  higher  race.  Yet  a  moment  after,  when 
the  figure  wheeled  and  disappeared  towards 
the  undulating  west,  a  strange  chill  crept 
over  him.  Yet  he  did  not  know  that  in  this 
puerile  phantom  and  painted  pigmy  the 
awful  majesty  of  Death  had  passed  him  by. 

"  Mamma  I  " 

It  was  Susy's  voice,  struggling  into  con- 
sciousness. Perhaps  she  had  been  instinc- 
tively conscious  of  the  boy's  sudden  fears. 

"  Hush !  " 

He  had  just  turned  to  the  objective  point 
of  the  Indian's  gaze.  There  was  something ! 
A  dark  line  was  moving  along  with  the 
gathering  darkness.  For  a  moment  he  hardly 


32  A   WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

^dared  to  voice  his  thoughts  even  to  himself. 
It  was  a  following  train  overtaking  them 
from  the  rear  !  And  from  the  rapidity  of 
its  movements  a  train  with  horses,  hurrying 
forward  to  evening  camp.  He  had  never 
dreamt  of  help  from  that  quarter.  This  was 
what  the  Indian's  keen  eyes  had  been  watch- 
mg,  and  why  he  had  so  precipitately  fled. 

The  strange  train  was  now  coming  up  at  a 
round  trot.  It  was  evidently  well  appointed, 
with  five  or  six  large  wagons  and  several 
outriders.  In  half  an  hour  it  would  be  here. 
I/'  Yet  he  refrained  from  waking  Susy,  who 
had  fallen  asleep  again  ;  his  old  superstition 
of  securing  her  safety  first  being  still  upper- 
most. He  took  off  his  jacket  to  cover  her 
shoulders,  and  rearranged  her  nest.  Then  he 
glanced  again  at  the  coming  train.  But  for 
some  unaccountable  reason  it  had  changed 
its  direction,  and  instead  of  following  the 
track  that  should  have  brought  it  to  his  side 
it  had  turned  off  to  the  left !  In  ten  minutes 
it  would  pass  abreast  of  him  a  mile  and  a 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  83 

half  away !  If  he  woke  Susy  now,  he  knew 
she  would  be  helpless  in  her  terror,  and  he 
could  not  carry  her  half  that  distance.  He 
might  rush  to  the  train  himself  and  return 
with  help,  bni^Jifi  would  nevpr  1fta.vf>_hgr 
alone  —  in  the  darkness.  Never!  If  she_ 
woke  she  would  die  of  fright,  perhaps,  or 
wander  blindly  and  aimlessly  away.  No ! 
groiilfl  pass,  and  with  it  that  hope 
Something  was  in  his  throat,  but 
he  gulped  it  down  and  was  quiet  again, 
albeit  he  shivered  in  the  night  wind. 

The  train  was  nearly  abreast  of  him  now. 
He  ran  out  of  the  tall  grass,  waving  his 
straw  hat  above  his  head  in  the  faint  hope 
of  attracting  attention.  But  he  did  not  go 
far,  for  he  found  to  his  alarm  that  when  he 
turned  back  again  the  clump  of  mesquite 
was  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  rest  of 
the  plain.  This  settled  all  question  of  his 
going.  Even  if  he  reached  the  train  and 
returned  wftn""~some  one,  how  would  he  ever 
find  her  again  in  this  desolate  expanse  ? 


34  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

He  watched  the  train  slowly  pass  —  still 
mechanically,  almost  hopelessly,  waving  his 
hat  as  he  ran  up  and  down  before  the 
mesquite,  as  if  he  were  waving  a  last  fare- 
well to  his  departing  hope.  Suddenly  it  ap- 
peared to  him  that  three  of  the  outriders 
who  were  preceding  the  first  wagon  had 
changed  their  shape.  They  were  no  longer 
sharp,  oblong,  black  blocks  against  the  hori- 
zon, but  had  become  at  first  blurred  and 
indistinct,  then  taller  and  narrower,  until  at 
last  they  stood  out  like  exclamation  points 
against  the  sky.  He  continued  to  wave  his 
hat,  they  continued  to  grow  taller  and  nar- 
rower. He  understood  it  now  —  the  three 
transformed  blocks  were  the  outriders  com- 
ing towards  him. 

This  is  what  he  had  seen  — 

•  •  • 

This  is  what  he  saw  now  — 
!   !   ! 

He  ran  back  to  Susy  to  see  if  she  still 
slept,  for  his  foolish  desire  to  have  her  saved 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  35 

unconsciously  was  stronger  than  ever  now 
that  safety  seemed  so  near.  She  was  still 
sleeping,  although  she  had  moved  slightly. 
He  ran  to  the  front  again. 

The  outriders  had  apparently  halted.  What 
were  they  doing  ?  Why  would  n't  they  come 
on? 

Suddenly  a  blinding  flash  of  light  seemed 
to  burst  from  one  of  them.  Away  over  his 
head  something  whistled  like  a  rushing  bird, 
and  sped  off  invisible.  They  had  fired  a 
gun  ;  they  were  signaling  to  him  —  Clarence 
—  like  a  grown-up  man.  He  would  have 
given  his  life  at  that  moment  to  have  had  a 
gun.  But  he  could  only  wave  his  hat  fran- 
tically. 

One  of  the  figures  here  bore  away  and 
impetuously  darted  forward  again.  He  was 
coming  nearer,  powerful,  gigantic,  formi- 
dable, as  he  loomed  through  the  darkness. 
All  at  once  he  threw  up  his  arm  with  a  wild 
gesture  to  the  others  ;  and  his  voice,  manly, 
frank,  and  assuring,  came  ringing  before 
him. 


36  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  Hold  up !  Good  God  !  It 's  no  Injin 
—  it 's  a  child !  " 

In  another  moment  he  had  reined  up  be- 
side Clarence  and  leaned  over  him,  bearded, 
handsome,  powerful,  and  protecting. 

"Hallo!  What's  all  this?  What  are 
you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Lost  from  Mr.  Silsbee's  train,"  said 
Clarence,  pointing  to  the  darkened  west. 

"Lost?  — how  long?" 

"  About  three  hours.  I  thought  they  'd 
come  back  for  us,"  said  Clarence  apologeti- 
cally to  this  big,  kindly  man. 

"And  you  kalkilated  to  wait  here  for 
'em?" 

"  Yes,  yes  —  I  did  —  till  I  saw  you." 

"  Then  why  in  thunder  did  n"f  you  light 
out  straight  for  us,  instead  of  hanging  round 
here  and  drawing  us  out  ?  " 
v  The  boy  hung  his  head.  Hejkngw  his 
reasons  were  unchanged,  but  all  at  once  they 
seemed  very  foolish  and  unmanly  to  speak 
out. 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  37 

"  Only  that  we  were  on  the  keen  jump  for 
Injins,"  continued  the  stranger,  "we  would 
n't  have  seen  you  at  all,  and  might  hev  shot 
you  when  we  did.  What  possessed  you  to 
stay  here  ?  " 

The  boy  was  still  silent.  "  Kla'uns,"  said 
a  faint,  sleepy  voice  from  the  mesquite, 
"  take  me."  The  rifle-shot  had  awakened 
Susy. 

The  stranger  turned  quickly  towards  the 
sound.  Clarence  started  and  recalled  him- 
self. "  There,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  you  've 
done  it  now,  you  Ve  wakened  her  !  Tha£s 
why  I  stayed.  I  could  n't  carry  her  over 
there  to  you.  I  could  n't  let  her  walk,  for 
she  'd  be  frightened.  I  would  n't  wake  her 
up,  for  she  'd  be  frightened,  and  I  might  n't 
find  her  again.  There !  "  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  be  abused,  but  he  was  reck- 
less now  that  she  was  safe. 

The  men  glanced  at  each  other.  "  Then," 
said  the  spokesman  quietly,  "you  didn't 
strike  out  for  us  on  account  of  your  sister  ?  " 


88  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  She  ain't  my  sister,"  said  Clarence 
quickly.  "  She  's  a  little  girl.  She 's  Mrs. 
Silsbee's  little  girl.  We  were  in  the  wagon 
and  got  down.  It 's  my  fault.  I  helped  her 
down." 

The  three  men  reined  their  horses  closely 
round  him,  leaning  forward  from  their  sad- 
dles, with  their  hands  on  their  knees  and 
their  heads  on  one  side.  "  Then,"  said  the 
spokesman  gravely,  "  you  just  reckoned  to 
stay  here,  old  man,  and  take  your  chances 
with  her  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  fright- 
ening or  leaving  her  —  though  it  was  your 
one  chance  of  life  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  scornful  of  this 
feeble,  grown-up  repetition. 

"  Come  here." 

The  boy  came  doggedly  forward.  The 
man  pushed  back  the  well-worn  straw  hat 
from  Clarence's  forehead  and  looked  into 
his  lowering  face.  With  his  hand  still  on 
the  boy's  head  he  turned  him  round  to  the 
others,  and  said  quietly,  — 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  39 

"Suthin  of  a  pup,  eh?" 

"  You  bet,"  they  responded. 

The  voice  was  not  unkindly,  although  the 
speaker  had  thrown  his  lower  jaw  forward 
as  to  pronounce  the  word  "  pup "  with  a 
humorous  suggestion  of  a  mastiff.  Before 
Clarence  could  make  up  his  mind  if  the 
epithet  was  insulting  or  not,  the  man  put  out 
his  stirruped  foot,  and,  with  a  gesture  of 
invitation,  said,  "  Jump  up." 

"  But  Susy,"  said  Clarence,  drawing  back. 

"  Look  ;  she 's  making  up  to  Phil  al- 
ready." 

Clarence  looked.  Susy  had  crawled  out  of 
the  mesquite,  and  with  her  sun-bonnet  hang- 
ing down  her  back,  her  curls  tossed  around 
her  face,  still  flushed  with  sleep,  and  Clar- 
ence's jacket  over  her  shoulders,  was  gaz- 
ing up  with  grave  satisfaction  in  the  laugh- 
ing eyes  of  one  of  the  men  who  was  with 
outstretched  hands  bending  over  her.  Could 
he  believe  his  senses  ?  The  terror-stricken, 
willful,  unmanageable  Susy,  whom  he  would 


40  A   WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

have  translated  unconsciously  to  safety  with- 
out this  terrible  ordeal  of  being  awakened 
to  the  loss  of  her  home  and  parents  at  any 
sacrifice  to  himself  —  this  ingenuous  infant 
was  absolutely  throwing  herself  with  every 
appearance  of  forgetfulness  into  the  arms  of 
the  first  new-comer !  Yet  his  perception  of 
this  fact  was  accompanied  by  no  sense  of 
ingratitude.  For  her  sake  he  felt  relieved, 
and  with  a  boyish  smile  of  satisfaction  and 
encouragement  vaulted  into  the  saddle  be- 
fore the  stranger. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  dash  forward  to  the  train,  securely 
held  in  the  saddle  by  the  arms  of  their  de- 
liverers, was  a  secret  joy  to  the  children  that 
seemed  only  too  quickly  over.  The  resist- 
less gallop  of  the  fiery  mustangs,  the  rush  of 
the  night  wind,  the  gathering  darkness  in 
which  the  distant  wagons,  now  halted  and 
facing  them,  looked  like  domed  huts  in  the 
horizon  —  all  these  seemed  but  a  delightful 
and  fitting  climax  to  the  events  of  the  day. 
In  the  sublime  forgetfulness  of  youth,  all 
they  had  gone  through  had  left  no  embar- 
rassing record  behind  it ;  they  were  willing 
to  repeat  their  experiences  on  the  morrow, 
confident  of  some  equally  happy  end.  And 
when  Clarence,  timidly  reaching  his  hand 
towards  the  horse-hair  reins  lightly  held  by 
his  companion,  had  them  playfully  yielded 


42  A    WAIF  OF  TEE  PLAINS. 

up  to  him  by  that  bold  and  confident  rider, 
the  boy  felt  himself  indeed  a  man. 

But  a  greater  surprise  was  in  store  for 
them.  As  they  neared  the  wagons,  now 
formed  into  a  circle  with  a  certain  degree  of 
military  formality,  they  could  see  that  the 
appointments  of  the  strange  party  were 
larger  and  more  liberal  than  their  own,  or 
indeed  anything  they  had  ever  known  of 
the  kind.  Forty  or  fifty  horses  were  teth- 
ered within  the  circle,  and  the  camp  fires 
were  already  blazing.  Before  one  of  them 
a  large  tent  was  erected,  and  through  the 
parted  flaps  could  be  seen  a  table  actually 
spread  with  a  white  cloth.  Was  it  a  school 
feast,  or  was  this  their  ordinary  household 
arrangement  ?  CJarence^-and.  Susy  thought 
of  their  own  dinners,  usually  laid  on  bare 
boards  beneath  the  sky,  or  under  the  low 
hood  of  the  wagon  in  rainy  weather,  and 
marveled.  And  when  they  finally  halted, 
and  were  lifted  from  their  horses,  and  passed 
one  wagon  fitted  up  as  a  bedroom  and  an- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  43 

other  as  a  kitchen,  they  could  only  nudge 
each  other  with  silent  appreciation.  But 
here  again  the  difference  already  noted  in 
Tche  quality  of  the  sensations  of  the  two  chil- 
dren was  observable.  Both_js£re  equally 
and  agreeably  surprised.  But^Susy^s  won- 
der was  merely  the  sense  of  novelty  and 
inexperience,  and  a  slight  disbelief  in  the 
actual  necessity  of  what  she  saw ;  while  Clar- 
ence, whether  from  some  previous  general 
experience  or  peculiar  temperament,  had  the 
conviction  that  what  he  saw  here  was  the 
usual  custom,  and  what  he  had  known  with 
the  Silsbees  was  the  novelty.  The  feeling 
was  attended  with  a  slight  sense  of  wounded 
pride  for  Susy,  as  if  her  enthusiasm  had  ex- 
posed her  to  ridicule. 

The  man  who  had  carried  him,  and  seemed 
to  be  the  head  of  the  party,  had  already 
preceded  them  to  the  tent,  and  presently 
reappeared  with  a  lady  with  whom  he  had 
exchanged  a  dozen  hurried  words.  They 
seemed  to  refer  to  him  and  Susy ;  but  Clar- 


44  A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

ence  was  too  much  preoccupied  with  the  fact 
that  the  lady  was  pretty,  that  her  clothes 
were  neat  and  thoroughly  clean,  that  her 
hair  was  tidy  and  not  rumpled,  and  that, 
although  she  wore  an  apron,  it  was  as  clean 
as  her  gown,  and  even  had  ribbons  on  it, 
to  listen  to  what  was  said.  And  when  she 
ran  eagerly  forward,  and  with  a  fascinating 
smile  lifted  the  astonished  Susy  in  her  arms, 
Clarence,  in  his  delight  for  his  young  charge, 
quite  forgot  that  she  had  not  noticed  him. 
The  bearded  man,  who  seemed  to  be  the 
lady's  husband,  evidently  pointed  out  the 
omission,  with  some  additions  that  Clarence 
could  not  catch ;  for  after  saying,  with  a 
pretty  pout,  "  Well,  why  should  n't  he  ?  " 
she  came  forward  with  the  same  dazzling 
smile,  and  laid  her  small  and  clean  white 
hantl  upon  his  shoulder. 

^f  And  so  you  took  good  care  of  the  dear 
little  thing  ?     She 's   such   an   angel,  is  n't 
she  ?  and  you  must  love  her  very  much." 
Clarence   colored   with   delight.     It  was 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  45 

true  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  look  at 
Susy  in  the  light  of  a  celestial  visitant,  and 
I  fear  he  was  just  then  more  struck  with  the 
fair  complimenter  than  the  compliment  to 
his  companion,  but  he  was  pleased  for  her 
sake.  He  was  not  yet  old  enough  to  be  con- 
scious of  the  sex's  belief  in  its  irresistible 
domination  over  mankind  at  all  ages,  and 
that  Johnny  in  his  check  apron  would  be 
always  a  hopeless  conquest  of  Jeannette  in 
her  pinafore,  and  that  he  ought  to  have  been 
in  love  with  Susy. 

Howbeit,  the  lady  suddenly  whisked  her 
away  to  the  recesses  of  her  own  wagon,  to 
reappear  later,  washed,  curled,  and  be-rib- 
boned  like  a  new  doll,  and  Clarence  was  left 
alone  with  the  husband  and  another  of  the 
party. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  you  have  n't  told  me  your 
name  yet." 

"  Clarence,  sir." 

"  So  Susy  calls  you,  but  what  else?" 

"  Clarence  Brant." 


46  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  Any  relation  to  Colonel  Brant?  "  asked 
the  second  man  carelessly. 

"  He  was  my  father,"  said  the  boy,  bright- 
ening under  this  faint  prospect  of  recogni- 
tion in  his  loneliness. 

The  two  men  glanced  at  each  other.  The 
leader  looked  at  the  boy  curiously,  and 
said,  — 

"  Are  you  the  son  of  Colonel  Brant,  of 
Louisville?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  dim  stir- 
ring of  uneasiness  in  his  heart.  "  But  he 's 
dead  now,"  he  added  finally. 

"  Ah,  when  did  he  die  ?  "  said  the  man 
quickly. 

"  Oh,  a  long  time  ago.  I  don't  remember 
him  much.  I  was  very  little,"  said  the  boy, 
half  apologetically. 

"  Ah,  you  don't  remember  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Clarence  shortly.  He  was 
beginning  to  fall  back  upon  that  certain 
dogged  repetition  which  in  sensitive  children 
arises  from  their  hopeless  inability  to  express 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  47 

their  deeper  feelings.  He  also  had  an  in- 
stinctive consciousness  that  this  want  of  a 
knowledge  of  his  father  was  part  of  that 
vague  wrong  that  had  been  done  him.  It 
did  not  help  his  uneasiness  that  he  could  see 
that  one.  of  the  two  men,  who  turned  away 
with  a  half-laugh,  misunderstood  or  did  not 
believe  him. 

"  How  did  you  come  with  the  Silsbees  ?  " 
asked  the  first  man. 

Clarence  repeated  mechanically,  with  a 
child's  distaste  of  practical  details,  how  he 
had  lived  with  an  aunt  at  St.  Jo,  and  how 
his  stepmother  had  procured  his  passage 
with  the  Silsbees  to  California,  where  he  was 
to  meet  his  cousin.  All  this  with  a  lack  of 
interest  and  abstraction  that  he  was  misera- 
bly conscious  told  against  him,  but  he  was 
yet  helpless  to  resist. 

The  first  man  remained  thoughtful,  and 
then  glanced  at  Clarence's  sunburnt  hands. 
Presently  his  large,  good-humored  smile  re- 
turned. 


48  A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  are  hungry  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence  shyly.     "  But "  — 

"But  what?" 

V*  I  should  like  to  wash  myself  a  little,"  he 
returned  hesitatingly,  thinking  of  the  clean 
tent,  the  clean  lady,  and  Susy's  ribbons. 

"  Certainly,"  said  his  friend,  with  a  pleased 
look.  "  Come  with  me."  Instead  of  leading 
Clarence  to  the  battered  tin  basin  and  bar 
of  yellow  soap  which  had  formed  the  toilet 
service  of  the  Silsbee  party,  he  brought  the 
boy  into  one  of  the  wagons,  where  there  was 
a  washstand,  a  china  basin,  and  a  cake  of 
scented  soap.  Standing  beside  Clarence,  he 
watched  him  perform  his  ablutions  with  an 
approving  air  which  rather  embarrassed  his 
protege.  Presently  he  said,  9  almost  ab- 
ruptly,— 

"Do  you  remember  your  father's  house 
at  Louisville  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  it  was  a  long  time  ago." 

Clarence  remembered  it  as  being  very  dif- 
ferent from  his  home  at  St.  Joseph's,  but 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  49 

from  some  innate  feeling  of  diffidence  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  describing  it  in 
that  way.  He,  however,  said  he  thought  it 
was  a  large  house.  Yet  the  modest  answer 
only  made  his  new  friend  look  at  him  the 
more  keenly. 

"  Your  father  was  Colonel  Hamilton  Brant, 
of  Louisville,  was  n't  he  ?  "  he  said,  half  con- 
fidentially. 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence  hopelessly. 

"  Well,"  said  his  friend  cheerfully,  as  if 
dismissing  an  abstruse  problem  from  his 
mind,  "  let 's  go  to  supper." 

When  they  reached  the  tent  again,  Clar- 
ence noticed  that  the  supper  was  laid  only 
for  his  host  and  wife  and  the  second  man,  — 
who  was  familiarly  called  "  Harry,"  but  who 
spoke  of  the  former  always  as  "Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Peyton,"  —  while  the  remainder  of  the  party, 
a  dozen  men,  were  at  a  second  camp  fire, 
and  evidently  enjoying  themselves  in  a  pic- 
turesque fashion.  Had  the  boy  been  allowed 
to  choose,  he  would  have  joined  them,  partly 


50  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

because  it  seemed  more  "  manly,"  and  partly 
that  he  dreaded  a  renewal  of  the  question- 
ing. 

But  here,  Susy,  sitting  bolt  upright  on  an 
extemporized  high  stool,  happily  diverted 
his  attention  by  pointing  to  the  empty  chair 
beside  her. 

"  Kla'uns,"  she  said  suddenly,  with  her 
usual  clear  and  appalling  frankness,  "they 
is  chickens,  and  hamanaigs,  and  hot  biks- 
quits,  and  lasses,  and  Mister  Peyton  says  I 
kin  have  'em  all." 

Qla££fl£e,  who  had  begun  suddenly  to  feel 
that  he  was  responsible  for  Susy's  deport- 
ment, and  was  balef ully  conscious  that  she 
was  holding  her  plated  fork  in  her  chubby 
fist  by  its  middle,  and,  from  .his  previous 
knowledge  of  her,  was  likely  at  any  mo- 
ment to  plunge  it  into  the  dish  before  her, 
said  softly,  — 

"Hush!" 

"  Yes,  you  shall,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton, 
with  tenderly  beaming  assurance  to  Susy 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  51 

and  a  half-reproachful  glance  at  the  bojr. 
"  Eat  what  you  like,  darling." 

"  It 's  a  fork,"  whispered  the  still  uneasy 
Clarence,  as  Susy  now  seemed  inclined  to 
stir  her  bowl  of  milk  with  it. 

"  'T  ain't,  now,  Kla'uns,  it 's  only  a  split 
spoon,"  said  Susy. 

But  Mrs.  Peyton,  in  her  rapt  admiration, 
took  small  note  of  these  irregularities,  plying 
the  child  with  food,  forgetting  her  own  meal, 
and  only  stopping  at  times  to  lift  back  the 
forward  straying  curls  on  Susy's  shoulders. 
Mr.  Peyton  looked  on  gravely  and  content- 
edly. Suddenly  the  eyes  of  husband  and 
wife  met. 

"  She  'd  have  been  nearly  as  old  as  this, 
John,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  in  a  faint  voice. 

John  Peyton  nodded  without  speaking, 
and  turned  his  eyes  away  into  the  gathering 
darkness.  The  man  "  Harry  "  also  looked 
abstractedly  at  his  plate,  as  if  he  was  say- 
ing grace.  Clarence  wondered  who  "  she  " 
was,  and  why  two  little  tears  dropped  from 


52  A  WAIF  OF  TEE  PLAINS. 

Mrs.  Peyton's  lashes  into  Susy's  milk,  and 
whether  Susy  might  not  violently  object 
to  it.  He  did  not  know  until  later  that  the 
Peytons  had  lost  their  only  child,  and  Susy 
comfortably  drained  this  mingled  cup  of  a 
mother's  grief  and  tenderness  without  sus- 
picion. 

"  I  suppose  we  '11  come  up  with  their  train 
early  to-morrow,  if  some  of  them  don't  find 
us  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  with  a  long 
sigh  and  a  regretful  glance  at  Susy.  "  Per- 
haps we  might  travel  together  for  a  little 
while,"  she  added  timidly. 

Harry  laughed,  and  Mr.  Peyton  replied 
gravely,  "  I  am  afraid  we  wouldn't  travel 
with  them,  even  for  company's  sake ;  and," 
he  added,  in  a  lower  and  graver  .voice,  "  it 's 
rather  odd  the  search  party  hasn't  come 
upon  us  yet,  though  I  'm  keeping  Pete  and 
Hank  patrolling  the  trail  to  meet  them." 

"  It 's  heartless  —  so  it  is !  "  said  Mrs.  Pey- 
ton, with  sudden  indignation.  "  It  would 
be  all  very  well  if  it  was  only  this  boy, 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  53 

who  ^>an  take  care  of  himself ;  but  to  be  so 
careless  of  a  mere  baby  like  this,  it 's  shame- 
ful!" 

For  the  first  time,  Clarenjce  tasted  the 
cruelty  of  discrimination.  All  the  more 
keenly  that  he  was  beginning  to  worship, 
after  his  boyish  fashion,  this  sweet-faced, 
clean,  and  tender-hearted  woman.  Perhaps 
Mr.  Peyton  noticed  it,  for  he  came  quietly 
to  his  aid. 

"  May  be  they  know  better  than  we*  in 
what  careful  hands  they  had  left  her,"  he 
said,  with  a  cheerful  nod  towards  Clarence. 
"  And,  again,  they  may  have  been  fooled  as 
we  were  by  Injin  signs  and  left  the  straight 
road." 

This  suggestion  instantly  recalled  to  Clar- 
ence his  vision  in  the  mesquite.  Should 
he  dare  tell  them  ?  Would  they  believe  him, 
or  would  they  laugh  at  him  before  her  ?  He 
hesitated,  and  at  last  resolved  to  tell  it  pri- 
vately to  the  husband.  When  the  meal  was 
ended,  and  he  was  made  happy  by  Mrs.  Pey- 


54  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

ton's  laughing  acceptance  of  his  offer  to  help 
her  clear  the  table  and  wash  the  dishes,  they 
all  gathered  comfortably  in  front  of  the  tent 
before  the  large  camp  fire.  At  the  other 
fire  the  rest  of  the  party  were  playing  cards 
and  laughing,  but  Clarence  no  longer  cared 
to  join  them.  He  was  quite  tranquil  in  the 
maternal  propinquity  of  his  hostess,  albeit  a 
little  uneasy  as  to  his  reticence  about  the 
Indian. 

"  J^la'imsj"  said  Susy,  relieving  a  momen- 
tary pause,  in  her  highest  voice,  "  knows 
how  to  speak.  Speak,  Kla'uns !  " 

It  appearing  from  Clarence's  blushing  ex- 
planation that  this  gift  was  not  the  ordinary 
faculty  of  speech,  but  a  capacity  to  recite 
verse,  he  was  politely  pressed  by-  the  com- 
pany for  a  performance. 

"  Speak  'em,  Kla'uns,  the  boy  what  stood 
unto  the  burnin'  deck,  and  said,  '  The  boy, 
oh,  where  was  he  ? '  "  said  Susy,  comfortably 
lying  down  on  Mrs.  Peyton's  lap,  and  con- 
templating her  bare  knees  in  the  air.  "  It 's 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  55 

'bout  a  boy,"  she  added  confidentially  to 
Mrs.  Peyton,  "  whose  father  would  n't  never, 
never  stay  with  him  on  a  burnin'  ship,  though 
he  said,  '  Stay,  father,  stay,'  ever  so  much." 

With  this  clear,  lucid,  and  perfectly  satis-  } 
factory  explanation  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  "  Ca- 
sabianca,"  Clarence  began.  Unfortunately, 
his  actual  rendering  of  this  popular  school 
performance  was  more  an  effort  of  memory 
than  anything  else,  and  was  illustrated  by 
those  wooden  gestures  which  a  Western 
schoolmaster  had  taught  him.  He  described 
the  flames  that  "roared  around  him,"  by 
indicating  with  his  hand  a  perfect  circle, 
of  which  he  was  the  axis ;  he  adjured  his 
father,  the  late  Admiral  Casabianca,  by 
clasping  his  hands  before  his  chin,  as  if 
wanting  to  be  manacled  in  an  attitude  which 
he  was  miserably  conscious  was  unlike  any- 
thing he  himself  had  ever  felt  or  seen  be- 
fore ;  he  described  that  father  "  faint  in 
death  below,"  and  "  the  flag  on  high,"  with 
one  single  motion.  Yet  something  that  the 


56  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

verses  had  kindled  in  his  active  imagination, 
perhaps,  rather  than  an  illustration  of  the 
verses  themselves,  at  times  brightened  his 
gray  eyes,  became  tremulous  in  his  youthful 
voice,  and  I  fear  occasionally  incoherent  on 
his  lips.  At  times,  when  not  conscious  of 
his  affected  art,  the  plain  and  all  upon  it 
seemed  to  him  to  slip  away  into  the  night, 
the  blazing  camp  fire  at  his  feet  to  wrap  him 
in  a  fateful  glory,  and  a  vague  devotion  to 
something  —  he  knew  not  what  —  so  pos- 
sessed him  that  he  communicated  it,  and 
probably  some  of  his  own  youthful  delight 
in  extravagant  voice,  to  his  hearers,  until, 
when  he  ceased  with  a  glowing  face,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  card  players  had 
deserted  their  camp  fires  and  gathered  round 
the  tent. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"You  didn't  say  'Stay,  father,  stay,' 
enough,  Kla'uns,"  said  Susy  critically.  Then 
suddenly  starting  upright  in  Mrs.  Peyton's 
lap,  she  continued  rapidly,  "I  kin  dance. 
And  sing.  I  kin  dance  High  Jambooree." 

"  What 's  High  Jambooree,  dear  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Peyton. 

"  You  '11  see.  Lemme  down."  And  Susy 
slipped  to  the  ground. 

The  dance  of  High  Jambooree,  evidently 
of  remote  mystical  African  origin,  appeared 
to  consist  of  three  small  skips  to  the  right 
and  then  to  the  left,  accompanied  by  the 
holding  up  of  very  short  skirts,  incessant 
"  teetering  "  on  the  toes  of  small  feet,  the 
exhibition  of  much  bare  knee  and  stocking, 
and  a  gurgling  accompaniment  of  childish 
laughter.  Vehemently  applauded,  it  left  the 


58  A   WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

little  performer  breathless,  but  invincible  and 
ready  for  fresh  conquest. 

"  I  kin  sing,  too,"  she  gasped  hurriedly, 
as  if  unwilling  that  the  applause  should 
lapse.  "  I  kin  sing.  Oh,  dear  !  Kla'uns," 
piteously,  "  what  is  it  I  sing  ?  " 

"  Ben  Bolt,"  suggested  Clarence. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet 
Alers  Ben  Bolt  ?  "  began  Susy,  in  the  same 
breath  and  the  wrong  key.  "  Sweet  Alers, 
with  hair  so  brown,  who  wept  with  delight 
when  you  giv'd  her  a  smile,  and" — with 
knitted  brows  and  appealing  recitative, 
"  what 's  er  rest  of  it,  Kla'uns  ?  " 

"  Who  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown  ?  " 
prompted  Clarence. 

"  Who  trembled  with  fear  at  my. frown?  " 
shrilled  Susy.  "  I  forget  er  rest.  Wait ! 
I  kin  sing  "  — 

"  Praise  God,"  suggested  Clarence. 

"  Yes."  Here  Susy,  a  regular  attendant 
in  camp  and  prayer  meetings,  was  on  firmer 
ground. 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  59 

Promptly  lifting  her  high  treble,  yet  with 
a  certain  acquired  deliberation,  she  began, 
"  PraissJjrod,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow." 
At  the  end  of  the  second  line  the  whisper- 
ing and  laughing  ceased.  A  deep  voice  to 
the  right,  that  of  the  champion  poker  player, 
suddenly  rose  on  the  swell  of  the  third  line. 
He  was  instantly  followed  by  a  dozen  ring- 
ing voices,  and  by  the  time  the  last  line  was 
reached  it  was  given  with  a  full  chorus,  in 
which  the  dull  chant  of  teamsters  and  drivers 
mingled  with  the  soprano  of  Mrs.  Peyton 
and  Susy's  childish  treble.  Again  and  again 
it  was  repeated,  with  forgetful  eyes  and  ab- 
stracted faces,  rising  and  falling  with  the 
night  wind  and  the  leap  and  gleam  of  the 
camp  fires,  and  fading  again  like  them  in 
the  immeasurable  mystery  of  the  darkened 
plain. 

In  the  deep  and  embarrassing  silence  that 
followed,  at  last  the  party  hesitatingly  broke 
up,  Mrs.  Peyton  retiring  with  Susy  after 
offering  the  child  to  Clarence  for  a  per- 


I/ 


60  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

functory  "  good-night "  kiss,  an  unusual  pro- 
ceeding, which  somewhat  astonished  them 
both  —  and  Clarence  found  himself  near 
Mr.  Peyton. 

"  I  think,"  said  Clarence  timidly,  "  I  saw 
an  Injin  to-day." 

Mr.  Peyton  bent  down  towards  him.  "  An 
Injin  —  where  ?  "  he  asked  quickly,  with  the 
same  look  of  doubting  interrogatory  with 
which  he  had  received  Clarence's  name  and 
parentage. 

The  boy  for  a  moment  regretted  having 
spoken.  But  with  his  old  cloggedness  he 
particularized  his  statement.  Fortunately, 
bejng_gi£ted  with  a  keen  perception,  he  was 
able  to  describe  the  stranger  accurately,  and 
to  impart  with  his  description  that  contempt 
for  its  subject  which  he  had  felt,  and  which 
to  his  frontier  auditor  established  its  truth- 
fulness. Peyton  turned  abruptly  away,  but 
presently  returned  with  Harry  and  another 
man. 

"You  are  sure  of  this?"  said  Peyton, 
half  encouragingly. 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  61 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  As  sure  as  you  are  that  your  father  is 
Colonel  Brant  and  is  dead?"  said  Harry, 
with  a  light  laugh. 

Tears  sprang  into  the  boy's  lowering  eyes. 
"  I  don't  lie,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"  I  believe  you,  Clarence,"  said  Peyton 
quietly.  "But  why  didn't  you  say  it  be- 
fore?" 

"  I  did  n't  like  to  say  it  before  Susy  and 
—  her  !  "  stammered  the  boy. 

"Her?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  —  Mrs.  Peyton,"  said  Clarence 
blushingly. 

"  Oh,"  said  Harry  sarcastically,  "  how 
blessed  polite  we  are !  " 

"  That  '11  do.  Let  up  on  him,  will  you  ?  " 
said  Peyton,  roughly,  to  his  subordinate. 
"  The  boy  knows  what  he  's  about.  But," 
he  continued,  addressing  Clarence,  "  how 
was  it  the  Injin  did  n't  see  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  very  still  on  account  of  not  waking 
Susy,"  said  Clarence,  "  and  "  —  He  hesi- 
tated. 


62  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  And  what  ?  " 

"He  seemed  more  keen  watching  what 
you  were  doing,"  said  the  boy  boldly. 

"  That 's  so,"  broke  in  the  second  man, 
who  happened  to  be  experienced,  "  and  as 
he  was  to  wind'ard  o'  the  boy  he  was  off  his 
scent  and  bearings.  He  was  one  of  their 
rear  scouts ;  the  rest  o'  them  's  ahead  cross- 
ing our  track  to  cut  us  off.  Ye  did  n't  see 
anything  else  ?  " 

"  I  saw  a  coyote  first,"  said  Clarence, 
greatly  encouraged. 

"  Hold  on  !  "  said  the  expert,  as  Harry 
turned  away  with  a  sneer.  "  That 's  a  sign, 
too.  Wolf  don't  go  where  wolf  hez  been, 
and  coyote  don't  f oiler  In j ins  —  there 's  no 
pickin's !  How  long  afore  did  you  see  the 
coyote  ?  " 

"  Just  after  we  left  the  wagon,"  said  Clar- 
ence. 

"  That 's  it,"  said  the  man,  thoughtfully. 
"  He  was  driven  on  ahead,  or  hanging  on 
their  flanks.  These  Injins  are  betwixt  us 
and  that  ar  train,  or  following  it." 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  63 

Peyton  made  a  hurried  gesture  of  warn- 
ing, as  if  reminding  the  speaker  of  Clar- 
ence's presence  —  a  gesture  which  the  boy 
noticed  and  wondered  at.  Then  the  conver- 
sation of  the  three  men  took  a  lower  tone, 
although  Clarence  distinctly  heard  the  con- 
cluding opinion  of  the  expert. 

"  It  ain't  no  good  now,  Mr.  Peyton,  and 
you  'd  be  only  exposing  yourself  on  their 
ground  by  breakin'  camp  agin  to-night. 
And  you  don't  know  that  it  ain't  us  they  're 
watchin'.  You  see,  if  we  had  n't  turned  off 
the  straight  road  when  we  got  that  first  scare 
from  these  yer  lost  children,  we  might  hev 
gone  on  and  walked  plump  into  some  cursed 
trap  of  those  devils.  To  my  mind,  we  're 
just  in  nigger  luck,  and  with  a  good  watch 
and  my  patrol  we  're  all  right  to  be  fixed 
where  we  be  till  daylight." 

Mr.  Peyton  presently  turned  away,  tak- 
ing Clarence  with  him.  "  As  we  '11  be  up 
early  and  on  the  track  of  your  train  to-mor- 
row, my  boy,  you  had  better  turn  in  now. 


64  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

I  Ve  put  you  up  in  my  wagon,  and  as  I  ex- 
pect to  be  in  the  saddle  most  of  the  night,  I 
reckon  I  won't  trouble  you  much."  He  led 
the  way  to  a  second  wagon  —  drawn  up  be- 
side the  one  where  Susy  and  Mrs.  Peyton 
had  retired  —  which  Clarence  was  surprised 
to  find  fitted  with  a  writing  table  and  desk, 
a  chair,  and  even  a  bookshelf  containing 
some  volumes.  A  long  locker,  fitted  like  a 
lounge,  had  been  made  up  as  a  couch  for 
him,  with  the  unwonted  luxury  of  clean 
white  sheets  and  pillow-cases.  A  soft  mat- 
ting covered  the  floor  of  the  heavy  wagon 
bed,  which,  Mr.  Peyton  explained,  was  hung 
on  centre  springs  to  prevent  jarring.  The 
sides  and  roof  of  the  vehicle  were  of  lightly 
paneled  wood,  instead  of  the  usual  hooked 
canvas  frame  of  the  ordinary  emigrant 
wagon,  and  fitted  with  a  glazed  door  and 
movable  window  for  light  and  air.  Clar- 
ence wondered  why  the  big,  powerful  man, 
who  seemed  at  home  on  horseback,  should 
ever  care  to  sit  in  this  office  like  a  merchant 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  65 

or  a  lawyer;  and  if  this  train  sold  things 
to  the  other  trains,  or  took  goods,  like  the 
peddlers,  to  towns  on  the  route  ;  but  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  to  sell,  and  the  other 
wagons  were  filled  with  only  the  goods  re- 
quired by  the  party.  He  would  have  liked  to 
ask  Mr.  Peyton  who  he  was,  and  have  ques- 
tioned him  as  freely  as  he  himself  had  been 
questioned.  But  as  the  average  adult  man 
never  takes  into  consideration  the  injustice 
of  denying  to  the  natural  and  even  necessary 
curiosity  of  childhood  that  questioning  which 
he  himself  is  so  apt  to  assume  without  right, 
and  almost  always  without  delicacy,  Clar- 
ence had  no  recourse.  Yet  the  boy,  like  all 
children,  was  conscious  that  if  he  had  been 
afterwards  questioned  about  this  inexplica- 
ble experience,  he  would  have  been  blamed 
for  his  ignorance  concerning  it.  Left  to 
himself  presently,  and  ensconced  between 
the  sheets,  he  lay  for  some  moments  staring 
about  him.  The  unwonted  comfort  of  his 
couch,  so  different  from  the  stuffy  blanket 


66  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

in  the  hard  wagon  bed  which  he  had  shared 
with  one  of  the  teamsters,  and  the  novelty, 
order,  and  cleanliness  of  his  surroundings, 
while  they  were  grateful  to  his  instincts,  be- 
gan in  some  vague  way  to  depress  him.  To 
his  loyal  nature  it  seemed  a  tacit  infidelity 
to  his  former  rough  companions  to  be  lying 
here ;  he  had  a  dim  idea  that  he  had  lost  that 
independence  which  equal  discomfort  and 
equal  pleasure  among  them  had  given  him. 
^here  seemed  a  sense  of  servitude  in  ac- 
cepting this  luxury  which  was  not  his.  This 
set  him  endeavoring  to  remember  something 
of  his  father's  house,  of  the  large  rooms, 
drafty  staircases,  and  far-off  ceilings,  and 
the  cold  formality  of  a  life  that  seemed 
made  up  of  strange  faces  ;  some- stranger  — 
his  parents  ;  some  kinder  —  the  servants  ; 
particularly  the  black  nurse  who  had  him  in 
charge.  Why  did  Mr.  Peyton  ask  him  about 
it  ?  Why,  if  it  were  so  important  to  stran- 
gers, had  not  his  mother  told  him  more  of 
it?  And  why  was  she  not  like  this  good 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  67 

woman  with  the  gentle  voice  who  was  so 
kind  to  —  to  Susy  ?  And  what  did  they 
mean  by  making  him  so  miserable  ?  Some- 
thing rose  in  his  throat,  but  with  an  effort 
he  choked  it  back,  and,  creeping  from  the 
lounge,  went  softly  to  the  window,  opened  it 
to  see  if  it  "  would  work,"  and  looked  out. 
The  shrouded  camp  fires,  the  stars  that  glit- 
tered but  gave  no  light,  the  dim  moving 
bulk  of  a  patrol  beyond  the  circle,  all  seemed 
to  intensify  the  darkness,  and  changed  the 
current  of  his  thoughts.  He  remembered 
what  Mr.  Peyton  had  said  of  him,  when  they 
first  met.  "  Suthin  of  a  pup,  ain't  he  ? " 
Surely  that  meant  something  that  was  not 
bad !  He  crept  back  to  the  couch  again. 

Lying  there,  still  awake,  he  reflected  that 
he  would  n't  be  a  scout  when  he  grew  up, 
but  would  be  something  like  Mr.  Peyton, 
and  have  a  train  like  this,  and  invite  the 
Silsbees  and  Susy  to  accompany  him.  For 
this  purpose,  he  and  Susy,  early  to-morrow 
morning,  would  get  permission  to  come  in 


68  A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

here  and  play  at  that  game.  This  would 
familiarize  him  with  the  details,  so  that  he 
would  be  able  at  any  time  to  take  charge  of 
it.  He  was  already  an  authority  on  the 
subject  of  Indians  !  He  had  once  been  fired 
at  —  as  an  Indian.  He  would  always  carry 
a  rifle  like  that  hanging  from  the  hooks  at 
the  end  of  the  wagon  before  him,  and  would 
eventually  slay  many  Indians  and  keep  an 
account  of  them  in  a  big  book  like  that  on 
the  desk.  Susy  would  help  him,  having 
grown  up  a  lady,  and  they  would  both  to- 
gether issue  provisions  and  rations  from  the 
door  of  the  wagon  to  the  gathered  crowds. 
He  would  be  known  as  the  "  White  Chief," 
his  Indian  name  being  "  Suthin  of  a  Pup." 
He  would  have  a  circus  van  attached  to  the 
train,  in  which  he  would  occasionally  per- 
form. He  would  also  have  artillery  for  pro- 
tection. There  would  be  a  terrific  engage- 
ment, and  he  would  rush  into  the  wagon, 
heated  and  blackened  with  gunpowder  ;  and 
Susy  would  put  down  an  account  of  it  in  a 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  69 

book,  and  Mrs.  Peyton  —  for  she  would  be 
there  in  some  vague  capacity  —  would  say, 
"Really,  now,  I  don't  see  but  what  we  .were 
very  lucky  in  having  such  a  boy  as  Clarence 
with  us.  I  begin  to  understand  him  better." 
And  Harry,  who,  for  purposes  of  vague 
poetical  retaliation,  would  also  drop  in  at 
that  moment,  would  mutter  and  say,  "  He 
is  certainly  the  son  of  Colonel  Brant ;  dear 
me !  "  and  apologize.  And  his  mother  would 
come  in  also,  in  her  coldest  and  most  indif- 
ferent manner,  in  a  white  ball  dress,  and 
start  and  say,  "  Good  gracious,  how  that  boy 
has  grown  !  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  see  more 
of  him  when  he  was  young."  Yet  even  in 
the  midst  of  this  came  a  confusing  numb- 
ness, and  then  the  side  of  the  wagon  seemed 
to  melt  away,  and  he  drifted  out  again  alone 
into  the  empty  desolate  plain  from  which 
even  the  sleeping  Susy  had  vanished,  and  he 
was  left  deserted  and  forgotten.  Then  all 
was  quiet  in  the  wagon,  and  only  the  night 
wind  moving  round  it.  But  lo !  the  lashes 


70  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

of  the  sleeping  White  Chief  —  the  dauntless 
leader,  the  ruthless  destroyer  of  Indians  — 
were  wet  with  glittering  tears! 

Yet  it  seemed  only  a  moment  afterwards 
that  he  awoke  with  a  faint  consciousness  of 
some  arrested  motion.  To  his  utter  con- 
sternation, the  sun,  three  hours  high,  was 
shinipg  in  the  wagon,  already  hot  and  stifling 
in  its  beams.  There  was  the  familiar  smell 
and  taste  of  the  dirty  road  in  the  air  about 
him.  There  was  a  faint  creaking  of  boards 
and  springs,  a  slight  oscillation,  and  beyond 
the  audible  rattle  of  harness,  as  if  the  train 
had  been  under  way,  the  wagon  moving,  and 
then  there  had  been  a  sudden  halt.  They 
had  probably  come  up  with  the  Silsbee 
train  ;  in  a  few  moments  the  change  would 
be  effected  and  all  of  his  strange  experience 
would  be  over.  He  must  get  up  now.  Yet, 
with  the  morning  laziness  of  the  healthy 
young  animal,  he  curled  up  a  moment  longer 
in  his  luxurious  couch. 

How   quiet   it  was !     There  were  far-off 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  71 

voices,  but  they  seemed  suppressed  and  hur- 
ried. Through  the  window  he  saw  one  of 
the  teamsters  run  rapidly  past  him  with  a 
strange,  breathless,  preoccupied  face,  halt  a 
moment  at  one  of  the  following  wagons,  and 
then  run  back  again  to  the  front.  Then  two 
of  the  voices  came  nearer,  with  the  dull  beat- 
ing of  hoofs  in  the  dust. 

"  Rout  out  the  boy  and  ask  him,"  said  a 
half-suppressed,  impatient  voice,  which  Clar- 
ence at  once  recognized  as  the  man  Harry's. 

"  Hold  on  till  Peyton  comes  up,"  said  the 
second  voice,  in  a  low  tone  ;  "  leave  it  to 
him." 

"  Better  find  out  what  they  were  like,  at 
once,"  grumbled  Harry. 

"  Wait,  stand  back,"  said  Peyton's  voice, 
joining  the  others  ;  "  I'll  ask  him." 

Clarence  looked  wonderingly  at  the  door. 
It  opened  on  Mr.  Peyton,  dusty  and  dis- 
mounted, with  a  strange,  abstracted  look  in 
his  face. 

"  How  many  wagons  are  in  your  train, 
Clarence  ?  " 


72  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  Three,  sir." 

"  Any  marks  on  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  eagerly  :  "  '  Off 
to  California '  and  '  Root,  Hog,  or  Die.'  " 

Mr.  Peyton's  eye  seemed  to  leap  up  and 
hold  Clarence's  with  a  sudden,  strange  sig- 
nificance, and  then  looked  down. 

"  How  many  were  you  in  all  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  Five,  and  there  was  Mrs.  Silsbee." 

"  No  other  woman  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Get  up  and  dress  yourself,"  he  said 
gravely,  "and  wait  here  till  I  come  back. 
Keep  cool  and  have  your  wits  about  you." 
He  dropped  his  voice  slightly.  "Perhaps 
something  's  happened  that  you  .'11  have  to 
show  yourself  a  little  man  again  for,  Clar- 
ence !  " 

The  door  closed,  and  the  boy  heard  the 
same  muffled  hoofs  and  voices  die  away  to- 
wards the  front.  He  began  to  dress  himself 
mechanically,  almost  vacantly,  yet  conscious 


V 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  73 

always  of  a  vague  undercurrent  of  thrilling 
excitement.  WhenJieJkfljdJmished  he  waited 
almost  breathlessly,  feeling  the  same  beating 
of  his  heart  that  he  had  felt  when  he  was 
following  the  vanished  train  the  day  before. 
At  la§t-  he  could  stand  the  suspense  no 
longer,  and  opened  the  door.  Everything 
was  still  in  the  motionless  caravan,  except  — 
it  struck  him  oddly  even  then  —  the  uncon- 
cerned prattling  voice  of  Susy  from  one  of 
the  nearer  wagons.  Perhaps  a  sudden  feel- 
ing that  this  was  something  that  concerned 
her,  perhaps  an  irresistible  impulse,  over- 
came him,  but  the  next  moment  he  had 
leaped  to  the  ground,  faced  about,  and  was 
running  feverishly  to  the  front. 

The  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  was  the 
helpless  and  desolate  bulk  of  one  of  the 
Silsbee  wagons  a  hundred  rods  away,  bereft 
of  oxen  and  pole,  standing  alone  and  motion- 
less against  the  dazzling  sky  !  Near  it  was 
the  broken  frame  of  another  wagon,  its  fore 
wheels  and  axles  gone,  pitched  forward  on 


74  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

its  knees  like  an  ox  under  the  butcher's 
sledge.  Not  far  away  there  were  the  burnt 
and  blackened  ruins  of  a  third,  around  which 
the  whole  party  on  foot  and  horseback 
seemed  to  be  gathered.  As  the  boy  ran 
violently  on,  the  group  opened  to  make  way 
for  two  men  carrying  some  helpless  but 
awful  object  between  them.  A  terrible  in- 
stinct made  Clarence  swerve  from  it  in  his 
headlong  course,  but  he  was  at  the  same 
moment  discovered  by  the  others,  and  a  cry 
arose  of  "  Go  back  !  "  "  Stop !  "  "  Keep 
him  back  !  "  Heeding  it  no  more  than  the 
wind  that  whistled  by  him,  Clarence  made 
directly  for  the  foremost  wagon  —  the  one 
in  which  he  and  Susy  had  played.  A  pow- 
erful hand  caught  his  shoulder  ;,  it  was  Mr. 
Peyton's. 

"  Mrs.  Silsbee's  wagon,"  said  the  boy, 
with  white  lips,  pointing  to  it.  "  Where  is 
she?" 

"  She  's  missing,"  said  Peyton,  "  and  one 
other  —  the  rest  are  dead." 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  75 

"  She  must  be  there,"  said  the  boy,  strug- 
gling, and  pointing  to  the  wagon ;  "  let  me 
go-" 

"  Clarence,"  said  Peyton  sternly,  accent- 
ing his  grasp  upon  the  boy's  arm,  "  be  a 
man !  Look  around  you.  Try  and  tell  us 
who  these  are." 

There  seemed  to  be  one  or  two  heaps  of 
old  clothes  lying  on  the  ground,  and  further 
on,  where  the  men  at  a  command  from  Pey- 
ton had  laid  down  their  burden,  another.  In 
those  ragged,  dusty  heaps  of  clothes,  from 
which  all  the  majesty  of  life  seemed  to  have 
been  ruthlessly  stamped  out,  only  what  was 
ignoble  and  grotesque  appeared  to  be  left. 
There  was  nothing  terrible  in  this.  The 
boy  moved  slowly  towards  them  ;  and,  in- 
credible even  to  himself,  the  overpowering 
fear  of  them  that  a  moment  before  had  over- 
come him  left  him  as  suddenly.  He  walked 
from  the  one  to  the  other,  recognizing  them 
by  certain  marks  and  signs,  and  mentioning 
name  after  name.  The  groups  gazed  at  him 


76  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

curiously  ;  he  was  conscious  that  he  scarcely 
understood  himself,  still  less  the  same  quiet 
purpose  that  now  made  him  turn  towards 
the  furthest  wagon. 

"  There  's  nothing  there,"  said  Peyton  ; 
"  we  've  searched  it."  But  the  boy,  without 
replying,  continued  his  way,  and  the  crowd 
followed  him. 

The  deserted  wagon,  more  rude,  disor- 
derly, and  slovenly  than  it  had  ever  seemed 
to  him  before,  was  now  heaped  and  tumbled 
with  broken  bones,  cans,  scattered  provi- 
sions, pots,  pans,  blankets,  and  clothing  in 
the  foul  confusion  of  a  dust-heap.  But  in 
this  heterogeneous  mingling  the  boy's  quick 
eye  caught  sight  of  a  draggled  edge  of 
calico. 

"  That 's  Mrs.  Silsbe<*'s  dress  !  "  he  cried, 
and  leapt  into  the  wagon. 

At  first  the  men  stared  at  each  other,  but 
an  instant  later  a  dozen  hands  were  helping 
him,  nervously  digging  and  clearing  away 
the  rubbish.  Then  one  man  uttered  a  sud- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  77 

den  cry,  and  fell  back  with  frantic  but 
furious  eyes  uplifted  against  the  pitiless, 
smiling  sky  above  him. 

"  Great  God  !  look  here !  " 

It  was  the  yellowish,  waxen  face  of  Mrs. 
Silsbee  that  had  been  uncovered.  But  to 
the  fancy  of  the  boy  it  had  changed  ;  the  old 
familiar  lines  of  worry,  care,  and  querulous- 
ness  had  given  way  to  a  look  of  remote  peace 
and  statue-like  repose.  He  had  often  vexed 
her  in  her  aggressive  life  ;  he  was  touched 
with  remorse  at  her  cold,  passionless  apathy 
now,  and  pressed  timidly  forward.  Even  as 
he  did  so,  the  man,  with  a  quick  but  warn- 
ing gesture,  hurriedly  threw  his  handker- 
chief over  the  matted  locks,  as  if  to  shut  out 
something  awful  from  his  view.  Clarence 
felt  himself  drawn  back ;  but  not  before  the 
white  lips  of  a  bystander  had  whispered  a 
single  word  — 

"Scalped,  toot  by  God!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THEN  followed  days  and  weeks  that  seemed 
to  Clarence  as  a  dream.  At  first,  an  inter- 
val of  hushed  and  awed  restraint,  when  he 
and  Susy  were  kept  apart,  a  strange  and 
artificial  interest  taken  little  note  of  by  him, 
but  afterwards  remembered  when  others  had 
forgotten  it ;  the  burial  of  Mrs.  Silsbee  be- 
neath a  cairn  of  stones,  with  some  ceremonies 
that,  simple  though  they  were,  seemed  to 
usurp  the  sacred  rights  of  grief  from  him 
and  Susy,  and  leave  them  cold  and  fright- 
ened ;  days  of  frequent  and  incoherent  child- 
ish outbursts  from  Susy,  growing  fainter 
and  rarer  as  time  went  on,  until  they  ceased, 
he  knew  not  when  ;  the  haunting  by  night 
of  that  morning  vision  of  the  three  or  four 
heaps  of  ragged  clothes  upon  the  ground, 
and  a  half  regret  that  he  had  not  examined 


A    WAIF  OF  TEE  PLAINS.  79 

them  more  closely ;  a  recollection  of  the  aw- 
ful loneliness  and  desolation  of  the  broken 
and  abandoned  wagon  left  behind  on  its 
knees,  as  if  praying  mutely  when  the  train 
went  on  and  left  it ;  the  trundling  behind 
of  the  fateful  wagon  in  which  Mrs.  Sils- 
bee's  body  had  been  found,  superstitiously 
shunned  by  every  one,  and  when  at  last 
turned  over  to  the  authorities  at  an  outpost 
garrison,  seeming  to  drop  the  last  link  from 
the  dragging  chain  of  the  past.  The  reve- 
lation to  the  children  of  a  new  experience 
in  that  brief  glimpse  of  the  frontier  garrison ; 
the  handsome  officer  in  uniform  and  belted 
sword,  an  heroic,  vengeful  figure  to  be  ad- 
mired and  imitated  hereafter;  the  sudden 
importance  and  respect  given  to  Susy  and 
himself  as  "  survivors ;  "  the  sympathetic 
questioning  and  kindly  exaggerations  of 
their  experiences,  quickly  accepted  by  Susy 
• —  all  these,  looking  back  upon  them  after- 
wards, seemed  to  have  passed  in  a  dream. 
No  less  strange  and  visionary  to  them 


80  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

seemed  the  real  transitions  they  noted  from 
the  moving  train.  How  one  morning  they 
missed  the  changeless,  motionless,  low,  dark 
line  along  the  horizon,  and  before  noon 
found  themselves  among  rocks  and  trees  and 
a  swiftly  rushing  river.  How  there  sud- 
denly appeared  beside  them  a  few  days  later 
a  great  gray  cloud-covered  ridge  of  moun- 
tains that  they  were  convinced  was  that  same 
dark  line  that  they  had  seen  so  often.  How 
the  men  laughed  at  them,  and  said  that  for 
the  last  three  days  they  had  been  crossing 
that  dark  line,  and  that  it  was  higher  than 
the  great  gray-clouded  range  before  them, 
which  it  had  always  hidden  from  their  view ! 
How  Susy  firmly  believed  that  these  changes 
took  place  in  her  sleep,  when  "she  always 
"  kinder  felt  they  were  crawlin'  up,"  and 
how  Clarence,  in  the  happy  depreciation  of 
extreme  youth,  expressed  his  conviction  that 
they  "  were  n't  a  bit  high,  after  all."  How 
the  weather  became  cold,  though  it  was  al- 
ready summer,  and  at  night  the  camp  fire 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  81 

was  a  necessity,  and  there  was  a  stove  in  the 
tent  with  Susy ;  and  yet  how  all  this  faded 
away,  and  they  were  again  upon  a  dazzling, 
burnt,  and  sun-dried  plain  !  But  always  as 
in  a  dream  ! 

More  real  were  the  persons  who  composed 
the  party  —  whom  they  seemed  to  have  al- 
ways known  —  and  who,  in  the  innocent 
caprice  of  children,  had  become  to  them 
more  actual  than  the  dead  had  ever  been. 
There  was  Mr.  Peyton,  who  they  now  knew 
owned  the  train,  and  who  was  so  rich  that 
he  "  need  n't  go  to  California  if  he  did  n't 
want  to,  and  was  going  to  buy  a  great  deal 
of  it  if  he  liked  it,"  and  who  was  also  a 
lawyer  and  "  policeman  "  —  which  was  Susy's 
rendering  of  "  politician  "  —  and  was  called 
"  Squire  "  and  "  Judge  "  at  the  frontier  out- 
post, and  could  order  anybody  to  be  "  took 
up  if  he  wanted  to,"  and  who  knew  every- 
body by  their  Christian  names ;  and  Mrs. 
Peyton,  who  had  been  delicate,  and  was  or- 
dered by  the  doctor  to  live  in  the  open  air 


82  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

for  six  months,  and  "  never  go  into  a  house 
or  a  town  agin,"  and  who  was  going  to  adopt 
Susy  as  soon  as  her  husband  could  arrange 
with  Susy's  relatives,  and  draw  up  the 
papers  !  How  "  Harry  "  was  Henry  Ben- 
ham,  Mrs.  Peyton's  brother,  and  a  kind  of 
partner  of  Mr.  Peyton.  And  how  the  scout's 
name  was  Gus  Gildersleeve,  or  the  "  White 
Crow,"  and  how,  through  his  recognized  in- 
trepidity, an  attack  upon  their  train  was  no 
doubt  averted.  Then  there  was  "  Bill,"  the 
stock  herder,  and  "  Texas  Jim,"  the  vaquero 
—  the  latter  marvelous  and  unprecedented 
in  horsemanship.  Such  were  their  compan- 
ions, as  appeared  through  the  gossip  of  the 
train  and  their  own  inexperienced  conscious- 
ness. To  them,  they  were  all  .astounding 
and  important  personages.  But,  either  from 
boyish  curiosity  or  some  sense  of  being  mis- 
understood, Clarence  was  more  attracted  by 
the  two  individuals  of  the  party  who  were 
least  kind  to  him  —  namely,  Mrs.  Peyton 
and  her  brother  Harry.  I  fear  that,  after 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  83 

the  fashion  of  most  children,  and  some 
grown-up  people,  he  thought  less  of  the 
steady  kindness  of  Mr.  Peyton  and  the  oth- 
ers than  of  the  rare  tolerance  of  Harry  or 
the  polite  concessions  of  his  sister.  Miser- 
ably conscious  of  this  at  times,  he  quite  con- 
vinced himself  that  if  he  could  only  win  a 
word  of  approbation  from  Harry,  or  a  smile 
from  Mrs.  Peyton,  he  would  afterwards  re- 
venge himself  by  "  running  away."  Whether 
he  would  or  not,  I  cannot  say.  I  am  writ- 
ing of  a  foolish,  growing,  impressionable  boy 
of  eleven,  of  whose  sentiments  nothing  could 
be  safely  predicted  but  uncertainty. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  became  fasci- 
nated by  another  member  of  the  party,  whose 
position  had  been  too  humble  and  unimpor- 
tant to  be  included  in  the  group  already 
noted.  Of  the  same  appearance  as  the 
other  teamsters  in  size,  habits,  and  apparel, 
he  had  not  at  first  exhibited  to  Clarence  any 
claim  to  sympathy.  But  it  appeared  that 
he  was  actually  a  youth  of  only  sixteen  —  a 


•  V 

84  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

hopeless  incorrigible  of  St.  Joseph,  whose 
parents  had  prevailed  on  Peyton  to  allow 
him  to  join  the  party,  by  way  of  removing 
him  from  evil  associations  and  as  a  method 
of  reform.  Of  this  Clarence  was  at  first 
ignorant,  not  from  any  want  of  frankness 
on  the  part  of  the  youth,  for  that  ingenious 
young  gentleman  later  informed  him  that 
he  had  killed  three  men  in  St.  Louis,  two 
in  St.  Jo,  and  that  the  officers  of  justice 
were  after  him.  But  it  was  evident  that 
to  precocious  habits  of  drinking,  smoking, 
chewing,  and  card-playing  this  overgrown 
youth  added  a  strong  tendency  to  exaggera- 
tion of  statement.  Indeed,  he  was  known 
as  "  Lying  Jim  Hooker,"  and  his  various 
qualities  presented  a  problem  to  Clarence 
that  was  attractive  and  inspiring,  doubtful, 
but  always  fascinating.  With  the  hoarse 
voice  of  early  wickedness  and  a  contempt 
for  ordinary  courtesy,  he  had  a  round,  per- 
fectly good-humored  face,  and  a  disposition 
that,  when  not  called  upon  to  act  up  to  his 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  85 

self-imposed  role  of  reckless  wickedness,  was 
not  unkindly. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  after  the  massacre, 
and  while  the  children  were  still  wrapped  in 
the  gloomy  interest  and  frightened  reticence 
which  followed  it,  that  "  Jim  Hooker  "  first 
characteristically  flashed  upon  Clarence's 
perceptions.  Hanging  half  on  and  half  off 
the  saddle  of  an  Indian  pony,  the  lank  Jim 
suddenly  made  his  appearance,  dashing  vio- 
lently up  and  down  the  track,  and  around 
the  wagon  in  which  Clarence  was  sitting, 
tugging  desperately  at  the  reins,  with  every 
indication  of  being  furiously  run  away  with, 
and  retaining  his  seat  oniv  with  the  most 
dauntless  courage  and  skill.  Round  and 
round  they  went,  the  helpless  rider  at  times 
hanging  by  a  single  stirrup  near  the  ground, 
and  again  recovering  himself  by  —  as  it 
seemed  to_Cla#ence  —  almost  superhuman 
effort.  Clarence  sat  open-mouthed  with 
anxiety  and  excitement,  and  yet  a  few  of 
the  other  teamsters  laughed.  Then  the 


86  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

voice  of  Mr.  Peyton,  from  the  window  of  his 
car,  said  quietly,  — 

"  There,  that  will  do,  Jim.  Quit  it !  " 
The  furious  horse  and  rider  instantly  dis- 
appeared. A  few  moments  after,  the  bewil- 
dered Clarence  saw  the  redoubted  horseman 
trotting  along  quietly  in  the  dust  of  the  rear, 
on  the  same  fiery  steed,  who  in  that  prosaic 
light  bore  an  astounding  resemblance  to  an 
ordinary  team  horse.  Later  in  the  day  he 
sought  an  explanation  from  the  rider. 

"  You  see,"  answered  Jim  gloomily,  "  thar 
ain't  a  galoot  in  this  yer  crowd  ez  knows  jist 
what 's  in  that  hoss !  And  them  ez  suspecks 
dare  n't  say !  It  would  n't  do  for  to  hev  it 
let  out  that  the  Judge  hez  a  Morgan-Mexican 
plug  that 's  killed  two  men  afore  .he  got  him-, 
and  is  bound  to  kill  another  afore  he  gets 
through  !  Why,  on'y  the  week  afore  we 
kern  up  to  you,  that  thar  hoss  bolted  with 
me  at  camping  !  Bucked  and  throwed  me, 
but  I  kept  my  holt  o'  the  stirrups  with  my 
foot  —  so  !  Dragged  me  a  matter  of  two 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  87 

miles,  head  down,  and  me  keepin'  away 
rocks  with  my  hand  —  so !  " 

"  Why  did  n't  you  loose  your  foot  and  let 
go  ?  "  asked  Clarence  breathlessly. 

"  You  might,"  said  Jim,  with  deep  scorn ; 
"that  ain't  my  style.  I  just  laid  low  till 
we  kem  to  a  steep  pitched  hill,  and  goin' 
down  when  the  hoss  was,  so  to  speak,  kinder 
below  me,  I  just  turned  a  hand  spring,  so, 
and  that  landed  me  onter  his  back  again." 

This  action,  though  vividly  illustrated  by 
Jim's  throwing  his  hands  down  like  feet  be- 
neath him,  and  indicating  the  parabola  of 
a  spring  in  the  air,  proving  altogether  too 
much  for  Clarence's  mind  to  grasp,  he  tim- 
idly turned  to  a  less  difficult  detail. 

"  What  made  the  horse  bolt  first,  Mr. 
Hooker  ?  " 

"  Smelt  Injins !  "  said  Jim,  carelessly  ex- 
pectorating tobacco  juice  in  a  curving  jet 
from  the  side  of  his  mouth  —  a  singularly 
fascinating  accomplishment,  peculiarly  his 
own,  "  V  likely  your  Injins." 


88  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  But,"  argued  Clarence  hesitatingly, 
"  you  said  it  was  a  week  before  —  and  "  — 

"  Er  Mexican  plug  kin  smell  In j ins  fifty, 
yes,  a  hundred  miles  away,"  said  Jim,  with 
scornful  deliberation  ;  "  'n'  if  Judge  Peyton 
had  took  my  advice,  and  hadn't  been  so 
mighty  feared  about  the  character  of  his 
hoss  gettin'  out,  he  'd  hev  played  roots  on 
them  In  j  ins  afore  they  tetched  ye.  But," 
he  added,  with  gloomy  dejection,  "  there 
ain't  no  sand  in  this  yer  crowd,  thar  ain't 
no  vim,  thar  ain't  nothin'  ;  and  thar  kan't 
be  ez  long  ez  thar's  women  and  babies,  and 
women  and  baby  fixin's,  mixed  up  with  it. 
I'd  hev  cut  the  whole  blamed  gang  ef  it 
were  n't  for  one  or  two  things,"  he  added 
darkly. 

Clarence,  impressed  by  Jim's  mysterious 
manner,  for  the  moment  forgot  his  con- 
temptuous allusion  to  Mr.  Peyton,  and  the 
evident  implication  of  Susy  and  himself,  and 
asked  hurriedly,  "  What  things  ?  " 

Jim,  as  if  forgetful  of  the  boy's  presence 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  89 

in  his  fitful  mood,  abstractedly  half  drew  a 
glittering  bowie  knife  from  his  boot  leg,  and 
then  slowly  put  it  back  again.  "  Thar 's  one 
or  two  old  scores,"  he  continued,  in  a  low 
voice,  although  no  one  was  in  hearing  dis- 
tance of  them,  "  one  or  two  private  ac- 
counts," he  went  on  tragically,  averting  his 
eyes  as  if  watched  by  some  one,  "  thet  hev 
to  be  wiped  out  with  blood  afore  /  leave. 
Thar  's  one  or  two  men  too  many  alive  and 
breathin'  in  this  yer  crowd.  Mebbee  it's 
Gus  Gildersleeve  ;  mebbee  it 's  Harry  Ben- 
ham  ;  mebbee,"  he  added,  with  dark  yet 
noble  disinterestedness,  "  it 's  me." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Clarence,  with  polite  depre- 
cation. 

Far  from  placating  the  gloomy  Jim,  this 
seemed  only  to  awake  his  suspicions.  "  Meb- 
bee," he  said,  dancing  suddenly  away  from 
Clarence,  "  mebbee  you  think  I  'm  lyin'. 
Mebbee  you  think,  because  you  're  Colonel 
Brant's  son,  yer  kin  run  me  with  this  yer 
train.  Mebbee,"  he  continued,  dancing  vio- 


90  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

lently  back  again,  "  ye  kalkilate,  because  ye 
run  off  'n'  stampeded  a  baby,  ye  kin  tote  me 
round  too,  sonny.  Mebbee,"  he  went  on, 
executing  a  double  shuffle  in  the  dust,  and 
alternately  striking  his  hands  on  the  sides 
of  his  boots,  "  mebbee  you  're  spyin'  round 
and  reportin'  to  the  Judge." 

Firmly  convinced  that  Jim  was  working 
himself  up  by  an  Indian  war-dance  to  some 
desperate  assault  on  himself,  but  resenting 
the  last  unjust  accusation,  Clarence  had  re- 
course to  one  of  his  old  dogged  silences. 
Happily  at  this  moment  an  authoritative 
voice  called  out,  "  Now,  then,  you  Jim 
Hooker !  "  and  the  desperate  Hooker,  as 
usual,  vanished  instantly.  Nevertheless,  he 
appeared  an  hour  or  two  later  beside  the 
wagon  in  which  Susy  and  Clarence  were 
seated,  with  an  expression  of  satiated  ven- 
geance and  remorseful  bloodguiltiness  in  his 
face,  and  his  hair  combed  Indian  fashion 
over  his  eyes.  As  he  generously  contented 
himself  with  only  passing  a  gloomy  and  dis- 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  91 

paraging  criticism  on  the  game  of  cards  that 
the  children  were  playing,  it  struck  Clar- 
ence, for  the  first  time  that  a  great  deal  of 
his  real  wickedness  resided  in  his  hair.  This 
set  him  to  thinking  that  it  was  strange  that 
Mr.  Peyton  did  not  try  to  reform  him  with 
a  pair  of  scissors,  but  not  until  Clarence  him- 
self had  for  at  least  four  days  attempted  to 
imitate  Jim  by  combing  his  own  hair  in  that 
fashion. 

A  few  days  later,  Jim  again  casually 
favored  him  with  a  confidential  interview. 
Clarence  had  been  allowed  to  bestride  one 
of  the  team  leaders  postillionwise,  and  was 
correspondingly  elevated,  when  Jim  joined 
him,  on  the  Mexican  plug,  which  appeared  — 
no  doubt  a  part  of  its  wicked  art  —  heavily 
docile,  and  even  slightly  lame. 

"  How  much,"  said  Jim,  in  a  tone  of 
gloomy  confidence,  —  "  how  much  did  you 
reckon  to  make  by  stealin'  that  gal-baby, 
sonny?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Clarence,  with  a  smile. 


92  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

Perhaps  it  was  an  evidence  of  the  marked 
influence  that  Jim  was  beginning  to  exert 
over  him  that  he  already  did  not  attempt  to 
resent  this  fascinating  implication  of  grown- 
up guilt. 

"  It  orter  bin  a  good  job,  if  it  war  n't 
revenge,"  continued  Jim  moodily. 

"  No,  it  was  n't  revenge,"  said  Clarence 
hurriedly. 

"  Then  ye  kalkilated  ter  get  er  hundred 
dollars  reward  ef  the  old  man  and  old  wo- 
man had  n't  bin  scelped  afore  ye  got  up  to 
'em  ?  "  said  Jim.  "  That 's  your  blamed  dod- 
gasted  luck,  eh  I  Enyhow,  you  '11  make  Mrs. 
Peyton  plank  down  suthin'  if  she  adopts  the 
babby.  Look  yer,  young  feller,"  he  said, 
starting  suddenly  and  throwing  his  face  for- 
ward, glaring  fiendishly  through  his  matted 
side-locks,  "  d'  ye  mean  ter  tell  me  it  was  n't 
a  plant  —  a  skin  game  —  the  hull  thing  ?  " 

"  A  what  ?  "  said  Clarence. 

"  D'  ye  mean  to  say  "  —  it  was  wonderful 
how  gratuitously  husky  his  voice  became  at 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  93 

this  moment  —  "  d'  ye  mean  ter  tell  me  ye 
didn't  set  on  them  Injins  to  wipe  out  the 
Silsbees,  so  that  ye  could  hev  an  out-an'- 
out  gal  orfen  on  hand  fer  Mrs.  Peyton  ter 
adopt  —  eh  ?  " 

Butjiere  Clarence  was  forced  to  protest, 
and  strongly,  although  Jim  contemptuously 
ignored  it.  "  Don't  lie  ter  me,"  he  repeated 
mysteriously,  "  I  'm  fly.  I  'm  dark,  young 
fel.  We  're  cahoots  in  this  thing  ?  "  And 
with  this  artful  suggestion  of  being  in  pos- 
session of  Clarence's  guilty  secret,  he  de- 
parted in  time  to  elude  the  usual  objurgation 
of  his  superior,  "  Phil,"  the  head  teamster. 

Nor  was  his  baleful  fascination  exercised 
entirely  on  Clarence.  In  spite  of  Mrs.  Pey- 
ton's jealously  affectionate  care,  Clarence's 
frequent  companionship,  and  the  little  circle 
of  admiring  courtiers  that  always  surrounded 
Susy,  it  became  evident  that  this  small  Eve 
had  been  secretly  approached  and  tempted 
by  the  Satanic  Jim.  She  was  found  one 
day  to  have  a  few  heron's  feathers  in  her 


94  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

possession  with  which  she  adorned  her  curls, 
and  at  another  time  was  discovered  to  have 
rubbed  her  face  and  arms  with  yellow  and 
red  ochre,  confessedly  the  free  gift  of  Jim 
Hooker.  It  was  to  Clarence  alone  that  she 
admitted  the  significance  and  purport  of 
these  offerings.  "  Jim  gived  'em  to  me," 
she  said,  "  and  Jim 's  a  kind  of  Injin  hisself 
that  won't  hurt  me ;  and  when  bad  Injins 
come,  they  '11  think  I  'm  his  Injin  baby  and 
run  away.  And  Jirn  said  if  I  'd  just  told 
the  Injins,  when  they  came  to  kill  papa  and 
mamma,  that  I  b'longed  to  him,  they  'd  hev 
runned  away." 

"  But,"  said  the  practical  Clarence,  "  you 
could  not ;  you  know  you  were  with  Mrs. 
Peyton  all  the  time." 

"  Kla'uns,"  said  Susy,  shaking  her  head 
and  fixing  her  round  blue  eyes  with  calm 
mendacity  on  the  boy,  "  don't  you  tell  me. 
I  was  there  !  " 

Clarence  started  back,  and  nearly  fell 
over  the  wagon  in  hopeless  dismay  at  this 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  95 

dreadful  revelation  of  Susy's  powers  of  ex- 
aggeration. "  But,"  he  gasped,  "  you  know, 
Susy,  you  and  me  left  before  "  — 

"  Kla'uns,"  said  Susy  calmly,  making  a 
little  pleat  in  the  skirt  of  her  dress  with  her 
small  thumb  and  fingers,  "  don't  you  talk  to 
me.  I  was  there.  I  'se  a  seriver !  The 
men  at  the  fort  said  so !  The  serivers  is 
allus,  allus  there,  and  allus,  allus  knows 
every  thin'." 

Clarence^  was  too  dumf ounded  to  reply. 
He  had  a  vague  recollection  of  having  no- 
ticed before  that  Susy  was  very  much  fasci- 
nated by  the  reputation  given  to  her  at  Fort 
Ridge  as  a  "  survivor,"  and  was  trying  in 
an  infantile  way  to  live  up  to  it.  This  the 
wicked  Jim  had  evidently  encouraged.  For 
a  day  or  two  Clarence  felt  a  little  afraid  of 
her,  and  more  lonely  than  ever. 

It  was  in  this  state,  and  while  he  was  dog- 
gedly conscious  that  his  association  with 
Jim  did  not  prepossess  Mrs.  Peyton  or  her 
brother  in  his  favor,  and  that  the  former 


-     • 

96  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

even  believed  him  responsible  for  Susy's  un- 
hallowed acquaintance  with  Jim,  that  he 
drifted  into  one  of  those  youthful  escapades 
on  which  elders  are  apt  to  sit  in  severe  but 
not  always  considerate  judgment.  Believ- 
ing, like  many  other  children,  that  nobody 
cared  particularly  for  him,  except  to  restrain 
him,  discovering,  as  children  do,  much  sooner 
than  we  complacently  imagine,  that  love  and 
preference  have  no  logical  connection  with 
desert  or  character,  Clarence  became  boy- 
ishly reckless.  But  when,  one  day,  it  was 
rumored  that  a  herd  of  buffalo  was  in  the 
vicinity,  and  that  the  train  would  be  delayed 
the  next  morning  in  order  that  a  hunt  might 
be  organized  by  Gildersleeve,  Benham,  and 
a  few  others,  Clarence  listened  willingly  to 
Jim's  proposition  that  they  should  secretly 
follow  it. 

To  effect  their  unhallowed  purpose  re- 
quired boldness  and  duplicity.  It  was  ar- 
ranged that  shortly  after  the  departure  of 
the  hunting  party  Clarence  should  ask  per- 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  97 

mission  to  mount  and  exercise  one  of  the 
team  horses  —  a  favor  that  had  been  fre- 
quently granted  him ;  that  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  camp  he  should  pretend  that  the  horse 
ran  away  with  him,  and  Jim  would  start  in 
pursuit.  The  absence  of  the  shooting  party 
with  so  large  a  contingent  of  horses  and 
men  would  preclude  any  further  detachment 
from  the  camp  to  assist  them.  Once  clear, 
they  would  follow  the  track  of  the  hunters, 
and,  if  discovered  by  them,  would  offer  the 
same  excuse,  with  the  addition  that  they  had 
lost  their  way  to  the  camp.  The  plan  was 
successful.  The  details  were  carried  out 
with  almost  too  perfect  effect ;  as  it  appeared 
that  Jim,  in  order  to  give  dramatic  intensity 
to  the  fractiousness  of  Clarence's  horse,  had 
inserted  a  thorn  apple  under  the  neck  of  his 
saddle,  which  Clarence  only  discovered  in 
time  to  prevent  himself  from  being  unseated. 
Urged  forward  by  ostentatious  "  Whoas !  " 
and  surreptitious  cuts  in  the  rear  from  Jim, 
pursuer  and  pursued  presently  found  them- 


98  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

selves  safely  beyond  the  half -dry  stream  and 
fringe  of  alder  bushes  that  skirted  the  camp. 
They  were  not  followed.  Whether  the  team- 
sters suspected  and  winked  at  this  design, 
or  believed  that  the  boys  could  take  care 
of  themselves,  and  ran  no  risk  of  being  lost 
in  the  proximity  of  the  hunting  party,  there 
was  no  general  alarm. 

Thus  reassured,  and  having  a  general  idea 
of  the  direction  of  the  hunt,  the  boys  pushed 
hilariously  forward.  Before  them  opened  a 
vast  expanse  of  bottom  land,  slightly  sloping 
on  the  right  to  a  distant  half -filled  lagoon, 
formed  by  the  main  river  overflow,  on  whose 
tributary  they  had  encamped.  The  lagoon 
was  partly  hidden  by  straggling  timber  and 
"  brush,"  and  beyond  that,  again,'  stretched 
the  unlimitable  plains  —  the  pasture  of  their 
mighty  game.  Hither,  Jim  hoarsely  informed 
his  companion ,  the  buffaloes  came  to  water.  A 
few  rods  further  on,  he  started  dramatically, 
and,  alighting,  proceeded  to  slowly  examine 
the  ground.  It  seemed  to  be  scattered  over 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  99 

with  half-circular  patches,  which  he  pointed 
out  mysteriously  as  "buffalo  chip."  To 
Clarence's  inexperienced  perception  the  plain  , 
bore  a  singular  resemblance  to  the  surface 
of  an  ordinary  unromantic  cattle  pasture 
that  somewhat  chilled  his  heroic  fancy.  How- 
ever, the  two  companions  halted  and  profes- 
sionally examined  their  arms  and  equip- 
ments. 

These,  I  grieve  to  say,  though  varied,  were 
scarcely  full  or  satisfactory.  The  necessi- 
ties of  their  flight  had  restricted  Jim  to  an 
old  double-barreled  fowling-piece,  which  he 
usually  carried  slung  across  his  shoulders  ; 
an  old-fashioned  "  six-shooter,"  whose  bar- 
rels revolved  occasionally  and  unexpectedly, 
known  as  "  Allen's  Pepper  Box  "  on  account 
of  its  culinary  resemblance ;  and  a  bowie- 
knife.  Clarence  carried  an  Indian  bow  and 
arrow  with  which  he  had  been  exercising, 
and  a  hatchet  which  he  had  concealed  under 
the  flanks  of  his  saddle.  To  this  Jim  gen- 
erously added  the  six-shooter,  taking  the 


100  A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

hatchet  in  exchange  —  a  transfer  that  at  first 
delighted  Clarence,  until,  seeing  the  warlike 
and  picturesque  effect  of  the  hatchet  in 
Jim's  belt,  he  regretted  the  transfer.  The 
gun,  Jim  meantime  explained,  "extry 
charged,"  "  chuck  up  "  to  the  middle  with 
slugs  and  revolver  bullets,  could  only  be 
fired  by  himself,  and  even  then,  he  darkly 
added,  not  without  danger.  This  poverty  of 
equipment  was,  however,  compensated  by 
opposite  statements  from  Jim  of  the  ex- 
traordinary results  obtained  by  these  simple 
weapons  from  "  fellers  I  knew : "  how  he 
himself  had  once  brought  down  a  "  bull "  by 
a  bold  shot  with  a  revolver  through  its  open 
bellowing  mouth  that  pierced  its  "  innards ;  " 
How  a  friend  of  his  —  an  intimate- in  fact  — 
now  in  jail  at  Louisville  for  killing  a  sheriff's 
deputy,  had  once  found  himself  alone  and 
dismounted  with  a  simple  clasp-knife  and  a 
lariat  among  a  herd  of  buffaloes ;  how,  leap- 
ing calmly  upon  the  shaggy  shoulders  of  the 
biggest  bull,  he  lashed  himself  with  the 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  101 

lariat  firmly  to  its  horns,  goading  it  onward 
with  his  clasp-knife,  and  subsisting  for  days 
upon  the  flesh  cut  from  its  living  body, 
until,  abandoned  by  its  fellows,  and  ex- 
hausted by  loss  of  blood,  it  finally  succumbed 
to  its  victor  at  the  very  outskirts  of  the 
camp  to  which  he  had  artfully  driven  it !  It 
must  be  confessed  that  this  recital  somewhat 
took  away  Clarence's  breath,  and  he  would 
have  liked  to  ask  a  few  questions.  But  they 
were  alone  on  the  prairie,  and  linked  by  a 
common  transgression  ;  the  glorious  sun  was 
coming  up  victoriously,  the  pure,  crisp  air 
was  intoxicating  their  nerves  ;  in  the  bright 
forecast  of  youth  everything  was  possible  ! 

The  surface  of  the  bottom  land  that  they 
were  crossing  was  here  and  there  broken  up 
by  fissures  and  "  pot-holes,"  and  some  cir- 
cumspection in  their  progress  became  neces- 
sary. In  one  of  these  halts,  Clarence  was 
struck  by  a  dull,  monotonous  jarring  that 
sounded  like  the  heavy,  regular  fall  of  water 
over  a  dam.  Each  time  that  they  slackened 


102  A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

their  pace  the  sound  would  become  more 
audible,  and  was  at  last  accompanied  by  that 
slight  but  unmistakable  tremor  of  the  earth 
that  betrayed  the  vicinity  of  a  waterfall. 
Hesitating  over  this  phenomenon,  which 
seemed  to  imply  that  their  topography  was 
wrong  and  that  they  had  blundered  from  the 
track,  they  were  presently  startled  by  the 
fact  that  the  sound  was  actually  approach- 
ing them !  With  a  sudden  instinct  they 
both  galloped  towards  the  lagoon.  As  the 
timber  opened  before  them  Jim  uttered  a 
long  ecstatic  shout :  "  Why,  it 's  them  !  " 

At  a  first  glance  it  seemed  to  Clarence  as 
if  the  whole  plain  beyond  was  broken  up 
and  rolling  in  tumbling  waves  or  furrows 
towards  them.  A  second  glance  showed  the 
tossing  fronts  of  a  vast  herd  of  buffaloes, 
and  here  and  there,  darting  in  and  out  and 
among-  them,  or  emerging  from  the  cloud  of 
dust  behind,  wild  figures  and  flashes  of  fire. 
With  the  idea  of  water  still  in  his  mind,  it 
seemed  as  if  some  tumultuous  tidal  wave 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  103 

were  sweeping  unseen  towards  the  lagoon, 
carrying  everything  before  it.  He  turned 
with  eager  eyes,  in  speechless  expectancy,  to 
his  companion. 

Alack  !  that  redoutable  hero  and  mighty 
hunter  was,  to  all  appearances,  equally 
speechless  and  astonished.  It  was  true  that 
he  remained  rooted  to  the  saddle,  a  lank, 
still  heroic  figure,  alternately  grasping  his 
hatchet  and  gun  with  a  kind  of  spasmodic 
regularity.  How  long  he  would  have  con- 
tinued this  could  never  be  known,  for  the 
next  moment,  with  a  deafening  crash,  the 
herd  broke  through  the  brush,  and,  swerving 
at  the  right  of  the  lagoon,  bore  down  directly 
upon  them.  All  further  doubt  or  hesitation 
on  their  part  was  stopped.  The  far-seeing, 
sagacious  Mexican  plug  with  a  terrific  snort 
wheeled  and  fled  furiously  with  his  rider. 
Moved,  no  doubt,  by  touching  fidelity,  Clar- 
ence's humbler  team-horse  instantly  followed. 
In  a  few  moments  those  devoted  animals 
struggled  neck  to  neck  in  noble  emulation. 


104  A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

"  What  are  we  goin'  off  this  way  for?" 
gasped  the  simple  Clarence. 

"  Peyton  and  Gildersleeve  are  back  there 
—  and  they  '11  see  us,"  gasped  Jim  in  reply. 
It  struck  Clarence  that  the  buffaloes  were 
much  nearer  them  than  the  hunting  party, 
and  that  the  trampling  hoofs  of  a  dozen 
bulls  were  close  behind  them,  but  with  an- 
other gasp  he  shouted, 

"  When  are  we  going  to  hunt  'em  ?  " 

"  Hunt  t hem  !  "  screamed  Jim,  with  a 
hysterical  outburst  of  truth  ;  "  why,  they  're 
huntin'  us  —  dash  it !  " 

Indeed,  there  was  no  doubt  that  their 
frenzied  horses  were  flying  before  the  equally 
frenzied  herd  behind  them.  They  gained  a 
momentary  advantage  by  rid  ing- into  one  of 
the  fissures,  and  out  again  on  the  other  side, 
while  their  pursuers  were  obliged  to  make  a 
detour.  But  in  a  few  minutes  they  were 
overtaken  by  that  part  of  the  herd  who  had 
taken  the  other  and  nearer  side  of  the  la- 
goon, and  were  now  fairly  in  the  midst  of 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  105 

them.  The  ground  shook  with  their  tram- 
pling hoofs  ;  their  steaming  breath,  mingling 
with  the  stinging  dust  that  filled  the  air, 
half  choked  and  blinded  Clarence.  He  was 
dimly  conscious  that  Jim  had  wildly  thrown 
his  hatchet  at  a  cow-buffalo  pressing  close 
upon  his  flanks.  As  they  swept  down  into  an- 
other gully  he  saw  him  raise  his  fateful  gun 
in  utter  desperation.  Clarence  crouched  low 
on  his  horse's  outstretched  neck.  There  was 
a  blinding  flash,  a  single  stunning  report 
from  both  barrels  ;  Jim  reeled  in  one  way 
half  out  of  the  saddle,  while  the  smoking 
gun  seemed  to  leap  in  another  over  his  head, 
and  then  rider  and  horse  vanished  in  a  chok- 
ing cloud  of  dust  and  gunpowder.  A  moment 
after  Clarence's  horse  stopped  with  a  sudden 
'  check,  and  the  boy  felt  himself  hurled  over 
its  head  into  the  gully,  alighting  on  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  be  a  bounding  cushion 
of  curled  and  twisted  hair.  It  was  the 
shaggy  shoulder  of  an  enormous  buffalo ! 
For  Jim's  desperate  random  shot  and  double 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

charge  had  taken  effect  on  the  near  hind 
leg  of  a  preceding  bull,  tearing  away  the 
flesh  and  ham-stringing  the  animal,  who  had 
dropped  in  the  gully  just  in  front  of  Clar- 
ence's horse. 

Dazed  but  unhurt,  the  boy  rolled  from  the 
lifted  fore  quarters  of  the  struggling  brute 
to  the  ground.  When  he  staggered  to  his 
feet  again,  not  only  his  horse  was  gone,  but 
the  whole  herd  of  buffaloes  seemed  to  have 
passed  too,  and  he  could  hear  the  shouts  of 
unseen  hunters  now  ahead  of  him.  They 
had  evidently  overlooked  his  fall,  and  the 
gully  had  concealed  him.  The  sides  before 
him  were  too  steep  for  his  aching  limbs  to 
climb ;  the  slope  by  which  he  and  the  bull 
had  descended  when  the  collision*  occurred 
was  behind  the  wounded  animal.  Clarence 
was  staggering  towards  it  when  the  bull,  by 
a  supreme  effort,  lifted  itself  on  three  legs, 
half  turned,  and  faced  him. 
\J  These  events  had  passed  too  quickly  for 
the  inexperienced  boy  to  have  felt  any  active 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  107 

fear,  or  indeed  anything  but  wild  excitement 
and  confusion.  But  the  spectacle  of  that 
shaggy  and  enormous  front,  that  seemed  to 
fill  the  whole  gully,  rising  with  awful  de- 
liberation between  him  and  escape,  sent  a 
thrill  of  terror  through  his  frame.  The 
great,  dull,  bloodshot  eyes  glared  at  him 
with  a  dumb,  wondering  fury ;  the  large 
wet  nostrils  were  so  near  that  their  first 
snort  of  inarticulate  rage  made  him  reel 
backwards  as  from  a  blow.  The  gully  was 
only  a  narrow  and  short  fissure  or  subsidence 
of  the  plain ;  a  few  paces  more  of  retreat 
and  he  would  be  at  its  end,  against  an  al- 
most perpendicular  bank  fifteen  feet  high. 
If  he  attempted  to  climb  its  crumbling  sides 
and  fell,  there  would  be  those  short  but 
terrible  horns  waiting  to  impale  him!  It 
seemed  too  terrible,  too  cruel !  He  was  so 
small  beside  this  overgrown  monster.  It 
was  n't  fair !  The  tears  started  to  his  eyes, 
and  then,  in  a  rage  at  the  injustice  of  Fate, 
he  stood  doggedly  still  with  clenched  fists. 


108  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

He  fixed  his  gaze  with  half-hysterical,  child- 
ish fury  on  those  lurid  eyes ;  he  did  not 
know  that,  owing  to  the  strange  magnifying 
power  of  the  bull's  convex  pupils,  he,  Clar- 
ence, appeared  much  bigger  than  he  really 
was  to  the  brute's  heavy  consciousness,  the 
distance  from  him  most  deceptive,  and  that 
it  was  to  this  fact  that  hunters  so  often  owed 
their  escape.  He  only  thought  of  some 
desperate  means  of  attack.  Ah !  the  six- 
shooter.  It  was  still  in  his  pocket.  He 
drew  it  nervously,  hopelessly  —  it  looked  so 
small  compared  with  his  large  enemy ! 

He  presented  it  with  flashing  eyes,  and 
pulled  the  trigger.  A  feeble  click  followed, 
another,  and  again !  Even  this  had  mocked 
him.  He  pulled  the  trigger  once  more, 
wildly ;  there  was  a  sudden  explosion,  and 
another.  He  stepped  back ;  the  balls  had 
apparently  flattened  themselves  harmlessly 
on  the  bull's  forehead.  He  pulled  again, 
hopelessly  ;  there  was  another  report,  a  sud- 
den furious  bellow,  and  the  enormous  brute 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  109 

threw  his  head  savagely  to  one  side,  burying 
his  left  horn  deep  in  the  crumbling  bank 
beside  him.  Again  and  again  he  charged 
the  bank,  driving  his  left  horn  home,  and 
bringing  down  the  stones  and  earth  in  show- 
ers. It  was  some  seconds  before  Clarence 
saw  in  a  single  jdimpse  of  that  wildly  toss- 
ing crest  the  reai^i  of  this  fury.  The  blood 
was  pouring  from  his  left  eye,  penetrated  by 
the  last  bullet ;  the  bull  was  blinded !  A 
terrible  revulsion  of  feeling,  a  sudden  sense 
of  remorse  that  was  for  the  moment  more 
awful  than  even  his  previous  fear,  overcame 
him.  He  had  done  that  thing  !  As  much 
to  fly  from  the  dreadful  spectacle  as  any  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  he  took  advantage 
of  the  next  mad  paroxysms  of  pain  and 
blindness,  that  always  impelled  the  suffering 
beast  towards  the  left,  to  slip  past  him  on 
the  right,  reach  the  incline,  and  scramble 
wildly  up  to  the  plain  again.  Here  he  ran 
confusedly  forward,  not  knowing  whither  — 
only  caring  to  escape  that  agonized  bellow- 


110  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

ing,  to  shut  out  forever  the  accusing  look  of 
that  huge  blood-weltering  eye. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  distant  angry  shout, 
his  first  hurried  glance  the  plain  had 
seemed  empty,  but,  looking  up,  he  saw  two 
horsemen  rapidly  advancing  with  a  led  horse 
behind  them  —  his  own.  With  the  blessed 
sense  of  relief  that  overtoR:  him  now  came 
the  fevered  desire  for  sympathy  and  to  tell 
them  all.  But  as  they  came  nearer  he  saw 
that  they  were  Gildersleeve,  the  scout,  and 
Henry  Benham,  and  that,  far  from  sharing 
any  delight  in  his  deliverance,  their  faces 
only  exhibited  irascible  impatience.  Over- 
come by  this  new  defeat,  the  boy  stopped, 
again  dumb  and  dogged. 

"  Now,  then,  blank  it  all,  will-yon  get  up 
and  come  along,  or  do  you  reckon  to  keep 
the  train  waiting  another  hour  over  your 
blanked  foolishness?"  said  Gildersleeve 
savagely. 

The  boy  hesitated,  and  then  mounted 
mechanically,  without  a  word. 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  Ill 

"  'T  would  have  served  'em  right  to  have 
gone  and  left 'em,"  muttered  Benhani  vin- 
dictively. 

For  one  wild  instant  Clarence  thought  of 
throwing  himself  from  his  horse  and  bidding 
them  go  on  and  leave  him.  But  before  he 
could  put  this  thought  into  action  the  two 
men  were  galloping  forward,  with  his  horse 
led  by  a  lariat  fastened  to  the  horn  of  Gil- 
dersleeve's  saddle. 

In  two  hours  more  they  had  overtaken 
the  train,  already  on  the  march,  and  were 
in  the  midst  of  the  group  of  outriders. 
Judge  Peyton's  face,  albeit  a  trifle  per- 
plexed, turned  towards  Clarence  with  a 
kindly,  half-tolerant  look  of  welcome.  The 
boy's  heart  instantly  melted  with  forgive- 
ness. 

"  "Well,  my  boy,  let 's  hear  your  story. 
What  happened?" 

Clarence  cast  a  hurried  glance  around, 
and  saw  Jim,  with  face  averted,  riding 
gloomily  behind.  Then  nervously  and  hur- 


112  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

riedly  he  told  how  he  had  been  thrown  into 
the  gully  on  the  back  of  the  wounded  buf- 
falo, and  the  manner  of  his  escape.  An 
audible  titter  ran  through  the  cavalcade. 
Mr.  Peyton  regarded  him  gravely.  "  But 
how  did  the  buffalo  get  so  conveniently  into 
the  gully  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Jim  Hooker  lamed  him  with  a  shot- 
gun, and  he  fell  over,"  said  Clarence  tim- 
idly. 

A  roar  of  Homeric  laughter  went  up  from 
the  party.  Clarence  looked  up,  stung  and 
startled,  but  caught  a  single  glimpse  of  Jim 
Hooker's  face  that  made  him  forget  his  own 
mortification.  In  its  hopeless,  heart-sick, 
and  utterly  beaten  dejection  —  the  first  and 
only  real  expression  he  had  seen  on  it  —  he 
'  read  the  dreadful  truth.  Jim's  reputation 
had  ruined  him !  The  one  genuine  and 
striking  episode  of  his  life,  the  one  trust- 
worthy account  he  had  given  of  it,  had  been 
unanimously  accepted  as  the  biggest  and 
most  consummate  lie  of  his  record  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WITH  this  incident  of  the  hunt  closed,  to 
Clarence,  the  last  remembered  episode  of 
his  journey.  But  he  did  not  know  until 
long  after  that  it  had  also  closed  to  him 
what  might  have  been  the  opening  of  a  new 
career.  For  it  had  been  Judge  Peyton's  in- 
tention in  adopting  Susy  to  include  a  certain 
guardianship  and  protection  of  the  boy,  pro- 
vided he  could  get  the  consent  of  that  vague 
relation  to  whom  he  was  consigned.  But  it 
had  been  pointed  out  by  Mrs.  Peyton  and 
her  brother  that  Clarence's  association  with 
Jim  Hooker  had  made  him  a  doubtful  com- 
panion for  Susy,  and  even  the  Judge  himself 
was  forced  to  admit  that  the  boy's  apparent 
taste  for  evil  company  was  inconsistent  with 
his  alleged  birth  and  breeding.  Unfortu- 
nately, Clarence,  in  the  conviction  of  being 


114  A    WAIF  ~OF  THE  PLAINS. 

hopelessly  misunderstood,  and  that  dogged 
acquiescence  to  fate  which  was  one  of  his 
characteristics,  was  too  proud  to  correct  the 
impression  by  any  of  the  hypocrisies  of  child- 
hood. He  had  also  a  cloudy  instinct  of 
loyalty  to  Jim  in  his  disgrace,  without,  how- 
ever, experiencing  either  the  sympathy  of 
an  equal  or  the  zeal  of  a  partisan,  but  rather 
—  if  it  could  be  said  of  a  boy  of  his  years  — 
with  the  patronage  and  protection  of  a  su- 
perior. So  he  accepted  without  demur  the 
intimation  that  when  the  train  reached  Cali- 
fornia he  would  be  forwarded  from  Stockton 
with  an  outfit  and  a  letter  of  explanation  to 
Sacramento,  it  being  understood  that  in  the 
event  of  not  finding  his  relative  he  would 
return  to  the  Peytons  in  one  of  the  southern 
valleys,  where  they  elected  to  purchase  a 
tract  of  land. 

With  this  outlook,  and  the  prospect  of 
change,  independence,  and  all  the  rich  pos- 
sibilities that  to  the  imagination  of  youth 
are  included  in  them,  Clarence  had  found 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  115 

the  days  dragging.  The  halt  at  Salt  Lake, 
the  transit  of  the  dreary  Alkali  desert,  even 
the  wild  passage  of  the  Sierras,  were  but  a 
blurred  picture  in  his  memory.  The  sight 
of  eternal  snows  and  the  rolling  of  endless 
ranks  of  pines,  the  first  glimpse  of  a  hill- 
side of  wild  oats,  the  spectacle  of  a  rushing 
yellow  river  that  to  his  fancy  seemed  tinged 
with  gold,  were  momentary  excitements, 
quickly  forgotten.  But  when,  one  morning, 
halting  at  the  outskirts  of  a  struggling  set- 
tlement, he  found  the  entire  party  eagerly 
gathered  around  a  passing  stranger,  who 
had  taken  from  his  saddle-bags  a  small 
buckskin  pouch  to  show  them  a  double 
handful  of  shining  scales  of  metal,  Clarence,  r 
felt  the  first  feverish  and  overmastering 
thrill  of  the  gold-seekers.  Breathlessly  he 
followed  the  breathless  questions  and  care- 
less replies.  The  gold  had  been  dug  out  of 
a  placer  only  thirty  miles  away.  It  might 
be  worth,  say,  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars ; 
it  was  only  his  share  of  a  week's  work  with 


116  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

two  partners.  It  was  not  much ;  "  the  coun- 
try was  getting  played  out  with  fresh  ar- 
rivals and  greenhorns."  All  this  falling 
carelessly  from  the  unshaven  lips  of  a  dusty, 
roughly  dressed  man,  with  a  long-handled 
shovel  and  pickaxe  strapped  on  his  back, 
and  a  frying-pan  depending  from  his  saddle. 
But  no  panoplied  or  armed  knight  ever 
seemed  so  heroic  or  independent  a  figure 
to  Clarence.  What  could  be  finer  than 
the  noble  scorn  conveyed  in  his  critical  sur- 
vey of  the  train,  with  its  comfortable  cov- 
ered wagons  and  appliances  of  civilization  ? 
"  Ye  '11  hev  to  get  rid  of  them  ther  fixin's  if 
yer  goin'  in  for  placer  diggin' !  "  What  a 
corroboration  of  Clarence's  real  thoughts ! 
What  a  picture  of  independence"  was  this ! 
The  picturesque  scout,  the  all-powerful 
Judge  Peyton,  the  daring  young  officer,  all 
crumbled  on  their  clayey  pedestals  before 
this  hero  in  a  red  flannel  shirt  and  high- 
topped  boots.  Tp^s$r.oll  around  in  the  open 
air  all  day,  and  pick  up  those  shining  bits 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  117 

of  metal,  without  study,  without  method  or 
routine  —  this  was  really  life  ;  to  some  day 
come  upon  that  large  nugget  "  you  could  n't 
lift,"  that  was  worth  as  much  as  the  train 
and  horses  —  such  a  one  as  the  stranger  said 
was  found  the  other  day  at  Sawyer's  Bar  — 
this  was  worth  giving  up  everything  for. 
That  rough  man,  with  his  smile  of  careless 
superiority,  was  the  living  link  between 
Clarence  and  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights ; 
in  him  were  Aladdin  and  Sinbad  incarnate. 
Two  days  later  they  reached  Stockton. 
Here  Clarence,  whose  single  suit  of  clothes 
had  been  reinforced  by  patching,  odds  and 
ends  from  Peyton's  stores,  and  an  extraor- 
dinary costume  of  army  cloth,  got  up  by 
the  regimental  tailor  of  Fort  Ridge,  was 
taken  to  be  refitted  at  a  general  furnishing 
"  emporium."  But  alas  !  in  the  selection  of 
the  clothing  for  that  adult  locality  scant  pro- 
vision seemed  to  have  been  made  for  a  boy 
of  Clarence's  years,  and  he  was  with  dif- 
ficulty fitted  from  an  old  condemned  Gov- 


118  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

ernment  stores  with  "  a  boy's  "  seaman  suit 
and  a  brass  -  buttoned  pea-jacket.  To  this 
outfit  Mr.  Peyton  added  a  small  sum  of 
money  for  his  expenses,  and  a  letter  of  ex- 
planation to  his  cousin.  The  stage-coach 
was  to  start  at  noon.  It  only  remained  for 
Clarence  to  take  leave  of  the  party.  The 
final  parting  with  Susy  had  been  discounted 
on  the  two  previous  days  with  some  tears, 
small  frights  and  clingings,  and  the  ex- 
pressed determination  on  the  child's  part 
"  to  go  with  him ; "  but  in  the  excitement 
of  the  arrival  at  Stockton  it  was  still  further 
mitigated,  and  under  the  influence  of  a  little 
present  from  Clarence  —  his  first  disburse- 
ment of  his  small  capital  —  had  at  last  taken 
the  form  and  promise  of  merely- temporary 
separation.  Nevertheless,  when  the  boy's 
scanty  pack  was  deposited  under  the  stage- 
coach seat,  and  he  had  been  left  alone,  he 
ran  rapidly  back  to  the  train  for  one  moment 
more  with  Susy.  Panting  and  a  little  fright- 
ened, he  reached  Mrs.  Peyton's  car. 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  119 

"  Goodness  !  You  're.  not  gone  yet,"  said 
Mrs.  Peyton  sharply.  "  Do  you  want  to 
lose  the  stage  ?  " 

An  instant  before,  in  his  loneliness,  he 
might  have  answered,  "Yes."  But  under 
the  cruel  sting  of  Mrs.  Peyton's  evident  an- 
noyance at  his  reappearance  he  felt  his  legs 
suddenly  tremble,  and  his  voice  left  him. 
He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  Susy.  But  her 
voice  rose  comfortably  from  the  depths  of 
the  wagon  where  she  was  sitting. 

"  The  stage  will  be  goned  away,  Kla'uiis." 

She  too !  Shame  at  his  foolish  weakness 
sent  the  yearning  blood  that  had  settled 
round  his  heart  flying  back  into  his  face. 

"  I  was  looking  for  —  for  —  for  Jim, 
ma'am,"  he  said  at  last,  boldly. 

He  saw  a  look  of  disgust  pass  over  Mrs. 
Peyton's  face,  and  felt  a  malicious  satisfacr 
tion  as  he  turned  and  ran  back  to  the  stage. 
But  here,  to  his  surprise,  he  actually  found 
Jim,  whom  he  really  hadn't  thought  of, 
darkly  watching  the  last  strapping  of  lug- 


120  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

gage.  With  a  manner  calculated  to  convey 
the  impression  to  the  other  passengers  that 
he  was  parting  from  a  brother  criminal, 
probably  on  his  way  to  a  state  prison,  Jim 
shook  hands  gloomily  with  Clarence,  and 
eyed  the  other  passengers  furtively  between 
his  matted  locks. 

"  Ef  ye  hear  o?  anythin'  happening  ye  '11 
know  what 's  up,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hoarse, 
but  perfectly  audible  whisper*  "  Me  and 
them  's  bound  to  part  company  afore  long. 
Tell  the  fellows  at  Deadman's  Gulch  to  look 
out  for  me  at  any  time." 

Although  Clarence  was  not  going  to  Dead- 
man's Gulch,  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  had  a 
faint  suspicion  that  Jim  was  equally  igno- 
rant, yet  as  one  or  two  of  the '  passengers 
glanced  anxiously  at  the  demure,  gray-eyed 
boy  who  seemed  booked  for  such  a  baleful 
destination,  he  really  felt  the  half-delighted, 
half-frightened  consciousness  that  he  was 
starting  in  life  under  fascinating  immoral 
pretenses.  But  the  forward  spring  of  the 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  121 

fine-spirited  horses,  the  quickened  motion, 
the  glittering  sunlight,  and  the  thought  that 
he  really  was  leaving  behind  him  all  the 
shackles  of  dependence  and  custom,  and 
plunging  into  a  life  of  freedom,  drove  all 
else  from  his  mind.  He  turned  at  last  from 
this  hopeful,  blissful  future,  and  began  to 
examine  his  fellow-passengers  with  boyish 
curiosity.  Wedged  in  between  two  silent 
men  on  the  front  seat,  one  of  whom  seemed 
a  farmer,  and  the  other,  by  his  black  attire, 
a  professional  man,  Clarence  was  finally 
attracted  by  a  black-mantled,  dark-haired, 
bonnetless  woman  on  the  back  seat,  whose 
attention  seemed  to  be  monopolized  by  the 
jocular  gallantries  of  her  companions  and 
the  two  men  before  her  in  the  middle  seat. 
From  her  position  he  could  see  little  more 
than  her  dark  eyes,  which  occasionally 
seemed  to  meet  his  frank  curiosity  in  an 
amused  sort  of  way,  but  he  was  chiefly  struck 
by  the  pretty  foreign  sound  of  her  musical 
voice,  which  was  unlike  anything  he  had 


122  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

ever  heard  before,  and  —  alas  for  the  in- 
constancy of  youth  —  much  finer  than  Mrs. 
Peyton's.  Presently  his  farmer  companion, 
casting  a  patronizing  glance  on  Clarence's 
pea-jacket  and  brass  buttons,  said  cheerily  — 

"  Jest  off  a  voyage,  sonny  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  stammered  Clarence ;  "  I  came 
across  the  plains." 

"  Then  I  reckon  that 's  the  rig-out  for  the 
crew  of  a  prairie  schooner,  eh  ?  "  There  was 
a  laugh  at  this  which  perplexed  Clarence. 
Observing  it,  the  humorist  kindly  conde- 
scended to  explain  that  "  prairie  schooner  " 
was  the  current  slang  for  an  emigrant 
wagon. 

"  I  could  n't,."  explained  Clarence,  naively 
looking  at  the  dark  eyes  on  the  -  back  seat, 
"  get  any  clothes  at  Stockton  but  these  ;  I 
suppose  the  folks  did  n't  think  there  'd  ever 
be  boys  in  California." 

The  simplicity  of  this  speech  evidently 
impressed  the  others,  for  the  two  men  in  the 
middle  seats  turned  at  a  whisper  from  the 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  123 

lady  and  regarded  him  curiously.  Clarence 
blushed  slightly  and  became  silent.  Pres- 
ently the  vehicle  began  to  slacken  its  speed. 
They  were  ascending  a  hill ;  on  either  bank 
grew  huge  cottonwoods,  from  which  occa- 
sionally depended  a  beautiful  scarlet  vine. 

"  Ah !  eet  ees  pretty,"  said  the  lady,  nod- 
ding her  black-veiled  head  towards  it.  "  Eet 
is  good  in  ze  hair." 

One  of  the  men  made  an  awkward  at- 
tempt to  clutch  a  spray  from  the  window. 
A  brilliant  inspiration  flashed  upon  Clarence. 
When  the  stage  began  the  ascent  of  the  next 
hill,  following  the  example  of  an  outside 
passenger,  he  jumped  down  to  walk.  At 
the  top  of  the  hill  he  rejoined  the  stage, 
flushed  and  panting,  but  carrying  a  small 
branch  of  the  vine  in  his  scratched  hands. 
Handing  it  to  the  man  on  the  middle  seat, 
he  said,  with  grave,  boyish  politeness  — 
"  Please  —  for  the  lady." 

A  slight  smile  passed  over  the  face  of 
Clarence's  neighbors.  The  bonnetless  woman 


124  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

nodded  a  pleasant  acknowledgment,  and  co- 
quettishly  wound  the  vine  in  her  glossy  hair. 
The  dark  man  at  his  side,  who  had  n't  spoken 
yet,  turned  to  Clarence  dryly. 

"  If  you  're  goin'  to  keep  up  this  gait, 
sonny,  I  reckon  ye  won't  find  much  trouble 
gettin'  a  man's  suit  to  fit  you  by  the  time 
you  reach  Sacramento." 

Clarence  did  n't  quite  understand  him,  but 
noticed  that  a  singular  gravity  seemed  to 
overtake  the  two  jocular  men  on  the  middle 
seat,  and  the  lady  looked  out  of  the  window. 
He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake  about  alluding  to  his  clothes  and 
his  size.  He  must  try  and  behave  more 
manly.  That  opportunity  seemed  to  be  of- 
fered two  hours  later,  when  the  stage  stopped 
at  a  wayside  hotel  or  restaurant. 

Two  or  three  passengers  had  got  down  to 
refresh  themselves  at  the  bar.  His  right 
and  left  hand  neighbors  were,  however,  en- 
gaged in  a  drawling  conversation  on  the 
comparative  merits  of  San  Francisco  sand- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  125 

hill  and  water  lots ;  the  jocular  occupants 
of  the  middle  seat  were  still  engrossed  with 
the  lady.  Clarence  slipped  out  of  the  stage 
and  entered  the  bar-room  with  some  ostenta- 
tion. The  complete  ignoring  of  his  person 
by  the  barkeeper  and  his  customers,  how- 
ever, somewhat  disconcerted  him.  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  and  then  returned  gravely 
to  the  stage  door  and  opened  it. 

"  Would  you  mind  taking  a  drink  with 
me,  sir  ?  "  said  Clarence  politely,  addressing 
the  farmer-looking  passenger  who .  had  been 
most  civil  to  him.  A  dead  silence  followed. 
The  two  men  on  the  middle  seat  faced  en- 
tirely around  to  gaze  at  him. 

"  The  Commodore  asks  if  you  '11  take  a 
drink  with  him,"  explained  one  of  the  men 
to  Clarence's  friend  with  the  greatest  serious- 
ness. 

"  Eh  ?  Oh,  yes,  certainly,"  returned  that 
gentleman,  changing  his  astonished  expres- 
sion to  one  of  the  deepest  gravity,  "  seeing 
\t  's  the  Commodore," 


126  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  And  perhaps  you  and  your  friend  will 
join,  too  ?  "  said  Clarence  timidly  to  the  pas- 
senger who  had  explained;  "and  you  too, 
sir?"  he  added  to  the  dark  man. 

"  Really,  gentlemen,  I  don't  see  how  we 
can  refuse,"  said  the  latter,  with  the  great- 
est formality,  and  appealing  to  the  others. 
"  A  compliment  of  this  kind  from  our  distin- 
guished friend  is  not  to  be  taken  lightly." 

"  I  have  observed,  sir,  that  the  Commo- 
dore's head  is  level,"  returned  the  other  man 
with  equal  gravity. 

Clarence  could  have  wished  they  had  not 
treated  his  first  hospitable  effort  quite  so 
formally,  but  as  they  stepped  from  the  coach 
with  unbending  faces  he  led  them,  a  little 
frightened,  into  the  bar-room.  .  .Here,  un- 
fortunately, as  he  was  barely  able  to  reach 
over  the  counter,  the  barkeeper  would  have 
again  overlooked  him  but  for  a  quick  glance 
from  the  dark  man,  which  seemed  to  change 
even  the  barkeeper's  perfunctory  smiling 
face  into  supernatural  gravity. 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  127 

"The  Commodore  is  standing  treat,"  said 
the  dark  man,  with  unbroken  seriousness, 
indicating  Clarence,  and  leaning  back  with 
an  air  of  respectful  formality.  "  /  will  take 
straight  whiskey.  The  Commodore,  on  ac- 
count of  just  changing  climate,  will,  I  be- 
lieve, for  the  present  content  himself  with 
lemon  soda." 

Clarence  had  previously  resolved  to  take 
whiskey,  like  the  others,  but  a  little  doubt- 
ful of  the  politeness  of  countermanding  his 
guest's  order,  and  perhaps  slightly  embar- 
rassed by  the  fact  that  all  the  other  custom- 
ers seemed  to  have  gathered  round  him  and 
his  party  with  equally  immovable  faces,  he 
said  hurriedly, 

"  Lemon  soda  for  me,  please." 

"The  Commodore,"  said  the  barkeeper, 
with  impassive  features,  as  he  bent  forward 
and  wiped  the  counter  with  professional  de- 
liberation, "  is  right.  No  matter  how  much 
a  man  may  be  accustomed  all  his  life  to 
liquor,  when  he  is  changing  climate,  gentle* 


128  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

men,  he  says  '  Lemon  soda  for  me '  all  the 
time." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Clarence,  brightening, 
"you  will  join  too?  " 

"  I  shall  be  proud  on  this  occasion,  sir." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  tall  man,  still  as  cere- 
moniously unbending  as  before,  "  that  there 
can  be  but  one  toast  here,  gentlemen.  I 
give  you  the  health  of  the  Commodore.  May 
his  shadow  never  be  less." 

The  health  was  drunk  solemnly.  Clarence 
felt  his  cheeks  tingle,  and  in  his  excitement 
drank  his  own  health  with  the  others.  Yet 
he  was  disappointed  that  there  was  not  more 
joviality ;  he  wondered  if  men  always  drank 
together  so  stiffly.  And  it  occurred  to  him 
that  it  would  be  expensive.  Nevertheless,  he 
had  his  purse  all  ready  ostentatiously  in  his 
hand  ;  in  fact,  the  paying  for  it  out  of  his 
own  money  was  not  the  least  manly  and  in- 
dependent pleasure  he  had  promised  himself. 
"  How  much  ?  "  he  asked,  with  an  affectation 
of  carelessness. 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  129 

The  barkeeper  cast  his  eye  professionally 
over  the  bar-room.  "  I  think  you  said  treats 
for  the  crowd ;  call  it  twenty  dollars  to  make 
even  change." 

Clarence's  heart  sank.  He  had  heard 
already  of  the  exaggeration  of  California 
prices.  Twenty  dollars!  It  was  half  his 
fortune.  Nevertheless,  with  an  heroic  effort, 
he  controlled  himself,  and  with  slightly 
nervous  fingers  counted  out  the  money.  It 
struck  him,  however,  as  curious,  not  to  say 
ungentlemanly,  that  the  bystanders  craned 
their  necks  over  his  shoulder  to  look  at  the 
contents  of  his  purse,  although  some  slight 
explanation  was  offered  by  the  tall  man. 

"  The  Commodore's  purse,  gentlemen,  is 
really  a  singular  one.  Permit  me,"  he  said, 
taking  it  from  Clarence's  hand  with  great 
politeness.  "It  is  one  of  the  new  pattern, 
you  observe,  quite  worthy  of  inspection." 
He  handed  it  to  a  man  behind  him,  who  in 
turn  handed  it  to  another,  while  a  chorus  of 
"  suthin  quite  new,"  "  the  latest  style,"  fol- 


130  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

lowed  it  in  its  passage  round  the  room,  and 
indicated  to  Clarence  its  whereabouts.  It 
was  presently  handed  back  to  the  barkeeper, 
who  had  begged  also  to  inspect  it,  and  who, 
with  an  air  of  scrupulous  ceremony,  insisted 
upon  placing  it  himself  in  Clarence's  side 
pocket,  as  if  it  were  an  important  part  of 
his  function.  The  driver  here  called  "all 
aboard."  The  passengers  hurriedly  reseated 
themselves,  and  the  episode  abruptly  ended. 
For,  to  Clarence's  surprise,  these  attentive 
friends  of  a  moment  ago  at  once  became  in- 
terested in  the  views  of  a  new  passenger 
concerning  the  local  politics  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  he  found  himself  utterly  forgotten. 
The  bonnetless  woman  had  changed  her 
position,  and  her  head  was  no  longer  visible. 
The  disillusion  and  depression  that  overcame 
him  suddenly  were  as  complete  as  his  previous 
expectations  and  hopefulness  had  been  ex- 
travagant. For  the  first  time  his  utter  un- 
importance in  the  world  and  his  inadequacy 
to  this  new  life  around  him  came  upon  him 
crushingly. 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  131 

The  heat  and  jolting  of  the  stage  caused 
him  to  fall  into  a  slight  slumber,  and  when 
he  awoke  he  found  his  two  neighbors  had 
just  got  out  at  a  wayside  station.  They  had 
evidently  not  cared  to  waken  him  to  say 
"  Good-by."  From  the  conversation  of  the 
other  passengers  he  learned  that  the  tall 
man  was  a  well-known  gambler,  and  the  one 
who  looked  like  a  farmer  was  a  ship  captain 
who  had  become  a  wealthy  merchant.  Clar- 
ence thought  he  understood  now  why  the 
latter  had  asked  him  if  he  came  off  a  voyage, 
and  that  the  nickname  of  " Commodore" 
given  to  him,  Clarence,  was  some  joke  in- 
tended for  the  captain's  understanding.  He 
missed  them,  for  he  wanted  to  talk  to  them 
about  his  relative  at  Sacramento,  whom  he 
was  now  so  soon  to  see.  At  last,  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  the  end  of  his  journey 
was  unexpectedly  reached.  It  was  dark, 
but,  being  "  steamer  night,"  the  shops  and 
business  places  were  still  open,  and  Mr. 
Peyton  had  arranged  that  the  stage-driver 


132  A    WAIF   OF  TEE  PLAINS. 

should  deliver  Clarence  at  the  address  of  his 
relative  in  "  J  Street,"  —  an  address  which 
Clarence  had  luckily  remembered.  But  the 
boy  was  somewhat  discomfited  to  find  that  it 
was  a  large  office  or  banking-house.  He, 
however,  descended  from  the  stage,  and 
with  his  small  pack  in  his  hand  entered  the 
building  as  the  stage  drove  off,  and,  address- 
ing one  of  the  busy  clerks,  asked  for  "  Mr. 
Jackson  Brant." 

There  was  no  such  person  in  the  office. 
There  never  had  been  any  such  person.  The 
bank  had  always  occupied  that  building. 
Was  there  not  some  mistake  in  the  num- 
ber? No ;  the  name,  number,  and  street  had 
been  deeply  engrafted  in  the  boy's  recollec- 
tion. Stop !  it  might  be  the  name  of  a  cus- 
tomer who  had  given  his  adcfress  at  the 
bank.  The  clerk  who  made  this  suggestion 
disappeared  promptly  to  make  inquiries  in 
the  counting-room.  Clarence,  with  a  rapidly 
beating  heart,  awaited  him.  The  clerk  re- 
turned. There  was  no  such  name  on  the 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  133 

books.  Jackson  Brant  was  utterly  unknown 
to  every  one  in  the  establishment. 

For  an  instant  the  counter  against  which 
the  boy  was  leaning  seemed  to  yield  with 
his  weight ;  he  was  obliged  to  steady  himself 
with  both  hands  to  keep  from  falling.  It 
was  not  his  disappointment,  which  was  ter- 
rible ;  it  was  not  a  thought  of  his  future, 
which  seemed  hopeless;  it  was  not  his  in- 
jured pride  at  appearing  to  have  willfully 
deceived  Mr.  Peyton,  which  was  more  dread- 
ful than  all  these ;  but  it  was  the  sud- 
den, sickening  sense  that  he  himself  had 
been  deceived,  tricked,  and  fooled  !  For  it 
flashed  upon  him  for  the  first  time  that  the 
vague  sense  of  wrong  which  had  always 
haunted  him  was  this  —  that  this  was  the 
vile  culmination  of  a  plan  to  get  rid  of  him, 
and  that  he  had  been  deliberately  lost  and 
led  astray  by  his  relatives  as  helplessly  and 
completely  as  a  useless  cat  or  dog ! 

Perhaps  there  was  something  of  this  in 
his  face,  for  the  clerk,  staring  at  him,  bade 


134  A   WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

him  sit  down  for  a  moment,  and  again  van- 
ished into  the  mysterious  interior.  Clarence 
had  no  conception  how  long  he  was  absent, 
or  indeed  of  anything  but  his  own  breathless 
thoughts,  for  he  was  conscious  of  wondering 
afterwards  why  the  clerk  was  leading  him 
through  a  door  in  the  counter  into  an  inner 
room  of  many  desks,  and  again  through  a 
glass  door  into  a  smaller  office,  where  a  pre- 
ternaturally  busy-looking  man  sat  writing 
at  a  desk.  Without  looking  up,  but  pausing 
'only  to  apply  a  blotting-pad  to  the  paper 
before  him,  the  man  said  crisply  — 

"  So  you  've  been  consigned  to  some  one 
who  don't  seem  to  turn  up,  and  can't  be 
found,  eh  ?  Never  mind  that,"  as  Clarence 
laid  Peyton's  letter  before  him.  "  Can't 
read  it  now.  "Well,  I  suppose  you  want  to 
be  shipped  back  to  Stockton  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  said  the  boy,  recovering  his  voice 
with  an  effort. 

"  Eh,  that 's  business,  though.  Know  any- 
body here?" 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  135 

"  Not  a  living  soul ;  that 's  why  they  sent 
me,"  said  the  boy,  in  sudden  reckless  des- 
peration. He  was  the  more  furious  that  he 
knew  the  tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes. 

The  idea  seemed  to  strike  the  man  amus- 
ingly. "  Looks  a  little  like  it,  don't  it  ?  " 
he  said,  smiling  grimly  at  the  paper  before 
him.  "  Got  any  money  ?  " 

"A  little." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  About  twenty  dollars,"  said  Clarence 
hesitatingly.  The  man  opened  a  drawer  at 
his  side,  mechanically,  for  he  did  not  raise 
his  eyes,  and  took  out  two  ten-dollar  gold 
pieces.  "I'll  go  twenty  better,"  he  said,  lay- 
ing them  down  on  the  desk.  "  That  '11  give 
you  a  chance  to  look  around.  Come  back 
here,  if  you  don't  see  your  way  clear."  He 
dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  with  a  significant 
gesture  as  if  closing  the  interview. 

Clarence  pushed  back  the  coin.  "  I  'm  not 
a  beggar,"  he  said  doggedly. 

The  man  this  time  raised  his  head  and  sur- 


136  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

veyed  the  boy  with  two  keen  eyes.  "  You  're 
not,  hey  ?  Well,  do  I  look  like  one  ?  " 

"  No,"  stammered  Clarence,  as  he  glanced 
into  the  man's  haughty  eyes. 

"  Yet,  if  I  were  in  your  fix,  I  'd  take  that 
money  and  be  glad  to  get  it." 

"If  you'll  let  me  pay  you  back  again," 
said  Clarence,  a  little  ashamed,  and  consider- 
ably frightened  at  his  implied  accusation  of 
the  man  before  him. 

"  You  can,"  said  the  man,  bending  over 
his  desk  again. 

Clarence  took  up  the  money  and  awk- 
wardly drew  out  his  purse.  But  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  touched  it  since  it  was  re- 
turned to  him  in  the  bar-room,  and  it  struck 
him  that  it  was  heavy  and  full-;—  indeed, 
so  full  that  on  opening  it  a  few  coins  rolled 
out  on  to  the  floor.  The  man  looked  up 
abruptly. 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  had  only  twenty 
dollars  ?  "  he  remarked  grimly. 

"  Mr.   Peyton  gave   me  forty,"  returned 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  137 

Clarence,  stupefied  and  blushing.  "  I  spent 
twenty  dollars  for  drinks  at  the  bar  —  and," 
he  stammered,  "I  —  I  —  I  don't  know  how 
the  rest  came  here." 

"  You  spent  twenty  dollars  for  drinks  ?  " 
said  the  man,  laying  down  his  pen,  and  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair  to  gaze  at  the  boy. 

"  Yes  —  that  is  —  I  treated  some  gentle- 
men of  the  stage,  sir,  at  Davidson's  Cross- 
ing." 

"Did  you  treat  the  whole  stage  com- 
pany ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  only  about  four  or  five  —  and  the 
bar-keeper.  But  everything's  so  dear  in  Cal- 
ifornia, /know  that." 

"  Evidently.  But  it  don't  seem  to  make 
much  difference  with  you"  said  the  man, 
glancing  at  the  purse. 

"  They  wanted  my  purse  to  look  at,"  said 
Clarence  hurriedly,  "  and  that 's  how  the 
thing  happened.  Somebody  put  Ms  own 
money  back  into  my  purse  by  accident." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  man  grimly. 


138  A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

"  Yes,  that 's  the  reason,"  said  Clarence,  a 
little  relieved,  but  somewhat  embarrassed  by 
the  man's  persistent  eyes. 

"  Then,  of  course,"  said  the  other  quietly, 
";ybu  don't  require  my  twenty  dollars  now." 
v  "  But,"  returned  Clarence  hesitatingly, 
"  this  isn't  my  money.  I  must  find  out  who 
it  belongs  to,  and  give  it  back  again.  Per- 
haps," he  added  timidly,  "  I  might  leave  it 
here  with  you,  and  call  for  it  when  I  find  the 
man,  or  send  him  here." 

With  the  greatest  gravity  he  here  sepa- 
rated the  surplus  from  what  was  left  of 
Peyton's  gift  and  the  twenty  dollars  he  had 
just  received.  The  balance  unaccounted  for 
was  forty  dollars.  He  laid  it  on  the  desk  be- 
fore the  man,  who,  still  looking  at  -him,  rose 
and  opened  the  door. 

"Mr.  Reed." 

The  clerk  who  had  shown  Clarence  in 
appeared. 

"  Open  an  account  with  "  —  He  stopped 
and  turned  interrogatively  to  Clarence. 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  139 

"  Clarence  Brant,"  said  Clarence,  coloring 
with  excitement. 

"With  Clarence  Brant.  Take  that  de- 
posit "  —  pointing  to  the  money  —  "  and  give 
him  a  receipt."  He  paused  as  the  clerk 
retired  with  a  wondering  gaze  at  the  money, 
looked  again  at  Clarence,  said,  "I  think 
you  'II  do,"  and  reentered  the  private  office, 
closing  the  door  behind  him. 

I  hope  it  will  not  be  deemed  inconceiv- 
able  that  Clarence,  only  a  few  moments 
before  crushed  with  bitter  disappointment 
and  the  hopeless  revelation  of  his  abandon- 
ment by  his  relatives,  now  felt  himself  lifted 
up  suddenly  into  an  imaginary  height  of  inde- 
pendence and  manjjood.  He  was  leaving  tfce 
bank,  in  which  he  stood  a  minute  before  a 
friendless  boy,  not  as  a  successful  beggar, 
for  this  important  man  had  disclaimed  the 
idea,  but  absolutely  as  a  custojnjar  !  a  depos- 
itor !  a  businessman  like  the  grown-up  clients 
who  were  thronging  the  outer  office,  and 
before  the  eyes  of  the  clerk  who  had  pitied 


140  A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

him!  And  he,  Clarence,  had  been  spoken 
to  by  this  man,  whose  name  he  now  rec- 
ognized as  the  one  that  was  on  the  door 
of  the  building  —  a  man  of  whom  his  fel- 
low-passengers had  spoken  with  admiring 
envy  —  a  banker  famous  in  all  California ! 
Will  it  be  deemed  incredible  that  this  imagi- 
native and  hopeful  boy,  forgetting  all  else, 
the  object  of  his  visit,  and  even  the  fact  that 
he  considered  this  money  was  not  his  own, 
actually  put  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side  as  he 
strolled  out  on  his  way  to  the  streets  and 
prospective  fortune  ? 

Two  hours  later  the  banker  had  another 
visitor.  It  chanced  to  be  the  farmer-looking 
man  who  had  been  Clarence's  fellow-passen- 
ger. Evidently  a  privileged  perstm,  he  was 
at  once  ushered  as  "  Captain  Stevens  "  into 
the  presence  of  the  banker.  At  the  end  of  a 
familiar  business  interview  the  captain  asked 
carelessly  — 

"  Any  letters  for  me  ?  " 

The  busy  banker  pointed  with  his  pen  to 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  141 

the  letter  "  S "  in  a  row  of  alphabetically 
labeled  pigeon-holes  against  the  wall.  The 
captain,  having  selected  his  correspondence, 
paused  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Look  here,  Garden,  there  are  letters  here 
for  some  chap  called  '  John  Silsbee.'  They 
were  here  when  I  called,  ten  weeks  ago." 

"Well?" 

a  That 's  the  name  of  that  Pike  County 
man  who  was  killed  by  Injins  in  the  plains. 
The  'Frisco  papers  had  all  the  particulars 
last  night ;  may  be  it 's  for  that  fellow.  It 
hasn  't  got  a  postmark.  Who  left  it  here  ?  " 

Mr.  Garden  summoned  a  clerk.  It  ap- 
peared that  the  letter  had  been  left  by  a 
certain  Brant  Fauquier,  to  be  called  for. 

Captain  Stevens  smiled.  "Brant's  been 
too  busy  dealin'  faro  to  think  of  'em  agin, 
and  since  that  shootin'  affair  at  Angels'  I 
hear  he  's  skipped  to  the  southern  coast  some- 
where. Gal  Johnson,  his  old  chum,  was  in 
the  up  stage  from  Stockton  this  afternoon." 

"Didr  you   come   by  the  up  stage   from 


142  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

Stockton  this  afternoon  ? "  said  Garden, 
looking  up. 

"  Yes,  as  far  as  Ten-mile  Station  —  rode 
the  rest  of  the  way  here." 

"  Did  you  notice  a  queer  little  old-fash- 
ioned kid  —  about  so  high  —  like  a  runaway 
school-boy  ?  " 

"  Did  I  ?  By  G— d,  sir,  he  treated  me  to 
drinks." 

Garden  jumped  from  his  chair.  "  Then 
he  wasn't  lying !  " 

"  No !  We  let  him  do  it ;  but  we  made  it 
good  for  the  little  chap  afterwards.  Hello ! 
What 'sup?" 

But  Mr.  Garden  was  already  in  the  outer 
office  beside  the  clerk  who  had  admitted 
Clarence.  » » 

"  You  remember  that  boy  Brant  who  was 
here?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Where  did  he  go?" 

"  Don't  know,  sir." 

"  Go  and  find  him  somewhere  and  some- 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  143 

how.  Go  to  all  the  hotels,  restaurants,  and 
gin-mills  near  here,  and  hunt  him  up.  Take 
some  one  with  you,  if  you  can't  do  it  alone. 
Bring  him  back  here,  quick !  " 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  clerk 
fruitlessly  returned.  It  was  the  fierce  high 
noon  of  "  steamer  nights  ;  "  light  flashed  bril- 
liantly from  shops,  counting-houses,  drinking- 
saloons,  and  gambling-hells.  The  streets 
were  yet  full  of  eager,  hurrying  feet  —  swift 
to  fortune,  ambition,  pleasure,  or  crime. 
But  from  among  these  deeper  harsher  foot- 
falls the  echo  of  the  homeless  boy's  light, 
innocent  tread  seemed  to  have  died  out  for- 
ever. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHEN  Clarence  was  once  more  in  the 
busy  street  before  the  bank,  it  seemed  clear 
to  his  boyish  mind  that,  being  now  cast 
adrift  upon  the  world  and  responsible  to  no 
one,  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
at  once  proceed  to  the  nearest  gold  mines ! 
The  idea  of  returning  to  Mr.  Peyton  and 
Susy,  as  a  disowned  and  abandoned  outcast, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  He  would  pur- 
chase some  kind  of  an  outfit,  such  as  he  had 
seen  the  miners  carry,  and  start  off  as  soon 
as  he  had  got  his  supper.  But  although  one 
of  his  most  delightful  anticipations  had  been 
the  unfettered  freedom  of  ordering  a  meal 
at  a  restaurant,  on  entering  the  first  one  he 
found  himself  the  object  of  so  much  cu- 
riosity, partly  from  his  size  and  partly  from 
his  dress,  which  the  unfortunate  boy  was 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  145 

beginning  to  suspect  was  really  preposterous, 
that  he  turned  away  with  a  stammered  ex- 
cuse, and  did  not  try  another.  Further  on 
he  found  a  baker's  shop,  where  he  refreshed 
himself  with  some  gingerbread  and  lemon 
soda.  At  an  adjacent  grocery  he  purchased 
some  herrings,  smoked  beef,  and  biscuits,  as 
future  provisions  for  his  "  pack "  or  kit. 
Then  began  his  real  quest  for  an  outfit.  In 
an  hour  he  had  secured  —  ostensibly  for 
some  friend,  to  avoid  curious  inquiry  —  a 
pan,  a  blanket,  a  shovel  and  pick,  all  of 
which  he  deposited  at  the  baker's,  his  un- 
ostentatious headquarters,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  pair  of  disguising  high  boots  that 
half  hid  his  sailor  trousers,  which  he  kept  to 
put  on  at  the  last.  Even  to  his  inexperience 
the  cost  of  these  articles  seemed  enormous ; 
when  his  purchases  were  complete,  of  his 
entire  capital  scarcely  four  dollars  remained ! 
Yet  in  the  fond  illusions  of  boyhood  these 
rude  appointments  seemed  possessed  of  far 
more  value  than  the  gold  he  had  given  in 


146  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

exchange  for  them,  and  he  had  enjoyed  a 
child's  delight  in  testing  the  transforming 
magic  of  money. 

Meanwhile,  the  feverish  contact  of  the 
crowded  street  had,  strange  to  say,  increased 
his  loneliness,  while  the  ruder  joviality  of  its 
dissipations  began  to  fill  him  with  a  vague 
uneasiness.  The  passing  glimpse  of  dancing 
halls  and  gaudily  whirling  figures  that 
seemed  only  feminine  in  their  apparel ;  the 
shouts  and  boisterous  choruses  from  concert 
rooms ;  the  groups  of  drunken  roisterers 
that  congregated  around  the  doors  of  saloons 
or,  hilariously  charging  down  the  streets,  el- 
bowed him  against  the  wall,  or  humorously 
insisted  on  his  company,  discomposed  and 
frightened  him.  He  had  known  rude  com- 
panionship before,  but  it  was  serious,  prac- 
tical, and  under  control.  There  was  some- 
thing in  this  vulgar  degradation  of  intellect 
and  power  —  qualities  that  Clarence  had 
always  boyishly  worshiped  —  which  sickened 
and  disillusioned  him.  Later  on  a  pistol 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  147 

shot  in  a  crowd  beyond,  the  rush  of  eager 
men  past  him,  the  disclosure  of  a  limp  and 
helpless  figure  against  the  wall,  the  closing 
of  the  crowd  again  around  it,  although  it 
stirred  him  with  a  fearful  curiosity,  actually 
shocked  him  less  hopelessly  than  their  bru- 
tish enjoyments  and  abandonment. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  rushes  that  he  had 
been  crushed  against  a  swinging  door,  which, 
giving  way  to  his  pressure,  disclosed  to  his 
wondering  eyes  a  long,  glitteriugly  adorned, 
and  brightly  lit  room,  densely  filled  with  a 
silent,  attentive  throng  in  attitudes  of  de- 
corous abstraction  and  preoccupation,  that 
even  the  shouts  and  tumult  at  its  very  doors 
could  not  disturb.  Men  of  all  ranks  and 
conditions,  plainly  or  elaborately  clad,  were 
grouped  together  under  this  magic  spell  of 
silence  and  attention.  The  tables  before 
them  were  covered  with  cards  and  loose 
heaps  of  gold  and  silver.  A  clicking,  the 
rattling  of  an  ivory  ball,  and  the  frequent, 
formal,  lazy  reiteration  of  some  unintelli- 


148  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

gible  sentence  was  all  that  he  heard.  But 
by  a  sudden  instinct  he  understood  it  all. 
It  was  a  gambling  saloon  ! 

Encouraged  by  the  decorous  stillness,  and 
the  fact  that  everybody  appeared  too  much 
engaged  to  notice  him,  the  boy  drew  timidly 
beside  one  of  the  tables.  It  was  covered 
with  a  number  of  cards,  on  which  were 
placed  certain  sums  of  money.  Looking 
down,  Clarence  saw  that  he  was  standing 
before  a  card  that  as  yet  had  nothing  on 
it.  A  single  player  at  his  side  looked  up, 
glanced  at  Clarence  curiously,  and  then 
placed  half  a  dozen  gold  pieces  on  the  vacant 
card.  Absorbed  in  the  general  aspect  of 
the  room  and  the  players,  Clarence  did  not 
notice  that  his  neighbor  won  twice,  and  even 
thrice,  upon  that  card.  Becoming  aware, 
however,  that  the  player,  while  gathering  in 
his  gains,  was  smilingly  regarding  him,  hqf 
moved  in  some  embarrassment  to  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  where  there  seemed  another 
gap  in  the  crowd.  It  so  chanced  that  here 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  149 

was  also  another  vacant  card.  The  previous 
neighbor  of  Clarence  instantly  shoved  a  sum 
of  money  across  the  table  on  the  vacant  card 
and  won  !  At  this  the  other  players  began 
to  regard  Clarence  singularly,  one  or  two  of 
the  spectators  smiled,  and  the  boy,  coloring, 
moved  awkwardly  away.  But  his  sleeve  was 
caught  by  the  successful  player,  who,  detain- 
ing him  gently,  put  three  gold  pieces  into 
his  hand. 

"  That 's  your  share,  sonny,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"Share  —  for  what?"  stammered  the  as- 
tounded Clarence. 

"  For  bringing  me  4  the  luck,' "  said  the 
man. 

Clarence  stared.  "  Am  I  —  to  —  to  play 
with  it  ?  "  he  said,  glancing  at  the  coins  and 
then  at  the  table,  in  ignorance  of  the  stran- 
^ger's  meaning. 

t;  No,'  no !  "  said  the  man  hurriedly,  "  don't 
do  that.  You  '11  lose  it,  sonny,  sure  !  Don't 
you  see,  you  bring  the  luck  to  others,  not 


150  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

to  yourself.  Keep  it,  old  man,  and  run 
home !  " 

"I  don't  want  it!  I  won't  have  it!" 
said  Clarence,  with  a  swift  recollection  of 
the  manipulation  of  his  purse  that  morning, 
and  a  sudden  distrust  of  all  mankind. 

"  There  !  "  He  turned  back  to  the  table 
and  laid  the  money  on  the  first  vacant  card 
he  saw.  In  another  moment,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  it  was  raked  away  by  the  dealer.  A 
sense  of  relief  came  over  him. 

"  There ! "  said  the  man,  with  an  awed 
voice  and  a  strange,  fatuous  look  in  his  eye. 
"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  You  see,  it 's  allus 
so  !  Now,"  he  added  roughly,  "  get  up  and 
get  out  o'  this,  afore  you  lose  the  boots  and 
shirt  off  ye." 

Clarence  did  not  wait  for  a  second  com- 
mand. With  another  glance  round  the 
room,  he  began  to  make  his  way  through  the 
crowd  towards  the  front.  But  in  that  part- 
ing glance  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman 
presiding  over  a  "  wheel  of  fortune "  in  a 


A    WAIF   OF  TEE  PLAINS.  151 

corner,  whose  face  seemed  familiar.  He 
looked  again,  timidly.  In  spite  of  an  ex- 
traordinary head-dress  or  crown  that  she 
wore  as  the  "  Goddess  of  Fortune,"  he  rec- 
ognized, twisted  in  its  tinsel,  a  certain  scar- 
let vine  which  he  had  seen  before ;  in  spite 
of  the  hoarse  formula  which  she  was  con- 
tinually repeating,  he  recognized  the  foreign 
accent.  It  was  the  woman  of  the  stage- 
coach !  With_  a  snrlrlpn  <?re>d  tV^.*.  ah/* 
might  recognize  him,  and  likewise  demand 
his  services  "  for  luck,"  he  turned  and  fled. 

Once  more  in  the  open  air,  there  came 
upon  him  a  vague  loathing  and  horror  of  the 
restless  madness  and  feverish  distraction  of 
this  half  -  civilized  city.  It  was  the  more 
powerful  that  it  was  vague,  and  the  outcome 
of  some  inward  instinct.  He  found  himself 
longing  for  the  pure  air  and  sympathetic 
loneliness  of  the  plains  and  wilderness ;  he 
began  to  yearn  for  the  companionship  of  his 
humble  associates  —  the  teamster,  the  scout 
Gildersleeve,  and  even  Jim  Hooker.  But 


152  A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

above  all  and  before  all  was  the  wild  desire 
to  get  away  from  these  maddening  streets 
and  their  bewjjd£i4eg~-eeeupants.  He  ran 
back  to  the  baker's,  gathered  His  purchases 
together,  took  advantage  of  a  friendly  door- 
way to  strap  them  on  his  boyish  shoulders, 
slipped  into  a  side  street,  and  struck  out  at 
once  for  the  outskirts. 

It  had  been  his  first  intention  to  take 
stage  to  the  nearest  mining  district,  but  the 
diminution  of  his  small  capital  forbade  that 
outlay,  and  he  decided  to  walk  there  by  the 
highroad,  of  whose  general  direction  he  had 
informed  himself.  In  half  an  hour  the  lights 
of  the  flat,  struggling  city,  and  their  reflec- 
tion in  the  shallow,  turbid  river  before  it, 
had  sunk  well  behind  him.  The  air  was 
cool  and  soft ;  a  yellow  moon  swam  in  the 
slight  haze  that  rose  above  the  tules ;  in  the 
distance  a  few  scattered  cottonwoods  and 
sycamores  marked  like  sentinels  the  road. 
When  he  had  walked  some  distance  he  sat 
down  beneath  one  of  them  to  make  a  frugal 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  153 

supper  from  the  dry  rations  in  his  pack,  but 
in  the  absence  of  any  spring  he  was  forced 
to  quench  his  thirst  with  a  glass  of  water  in 
a  wayside  tavern.  Here  he  was  good-hu- 
moredly  offered  something  stronger,  which 
he  declined,  and  replied  to  certain  curious 
interrogations  by  saying  that  he  expected  to 
overtake  his  friends  in  a  wagon  further  on. 
A^ew_distrust  o£.^maBkind-  had-Jjegun  to 
make  the  boy  an  adept  in  innocent  false- 
hood, the  more  deceptive  as  his  careless, 
cheerful  manner,  the  result  of  his  relief  at 
leaving  the  city,  and  his  perfect  ease  in  the 
loving  companionship  of  night  and  nature, 
certainly  gave  no  indication  of  his  homeless- 
ness  and  poverty. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when,  weary  in 
body,  but  still  hopeful  and  happy  in  mind, 
he  turned  off  the  dusty  road  into  a  vast  roll- 
ing expanse  of  wild  oats,  with  the  same 
sense  of  security  of  rest  as  a  traveler  to  his 
inn.  Here,  completely  screened  from  view 
by  the  tall  stalks  of  grain  that  rose  thickly 


154  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

around  him  to  the  height  of  a  man's 
shoulder,  he  beat  down  a  few  of  them  for 
a  bed,  on  which  he  deposited  his  blanket. 
Placing  his  pack  for  a  pillow,  he  curled  him- 
self up  in  his  blanket,  and  speedily  fell 
asleep. 

He  awoke  at  sunrise,  refreshed,  invigor- 
ated, and  hungry.  But  he  was  forced  to 
defer  his  first  self-prepared  breakfast  until 
he  had  reached  water,  and  a  less  dangerous 
place  than  the  wild-oat  field  to  build  his 
first  camp  fire.  This  he  found  a  mile 
further  on,  near  some  dwarf  willows  on  the 
bank  of  a  half-dry  stream.  Of  his  various 
efforts  to  prepare  his  first  meal,  the  fire  was 
the  most  successful ;  the  coffee  was  some- 
what too  substantially  thick,  and  the  bacon 
and  herring  lacked  defiuiteness  of  quality 
from  having  been  cooked  in  the  same  vessel. 
In  this  boyish  picnic  he  missed  Susy,  and 
recalled,  perhaps  a  little  bitterly,  her  cold- 
ness at  parting.  But  the  novelty  of  his  sit- 
uation, the  brilliant  sunshine  and  sense  of 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  155 

freedom,  and  the  road  already  awakening 
to  dusty  life  with  passing  teams,  dismissed 
everything  but  the  future  from  his  mind. 
Readjusting  his  pack,  he  stepped  on  cheer- 
ily. At  noon  he  was  overtaken  by  a  team- 
ster, who  in  return  for  a  match  to  light  his 
pipe  gave  him  a  lift  of  a  dozen  miles.  It  is 
to  be  feared  that  Clarence's  account  of  him- 
self was  equally  fanciful  with  his  previous 
story,  and  that  the  teamster  parted  from 
him  with  a  genuine  regret,  and  a  hope  that 
he  would  soon  be  overtaken  by  his  friends 
along  the  road.  "  And  mind  that  you  ain't 
such  a  fool  agin  to  let  'em  make  you  tote 
their  dod-blasted  tools  fur  them  !  "  he  added 
unsuspectingly,  pointing  to  Clarence's  min- 
ing outfit.  Thus  saved  the  heaviest  part  of 
the  day's  journey,  for  the  road  was  contin- 
ually rising  from  the  plains  during  the  last 
six  miles,  Clarence  was  able  yet  to  cover 
a  considerable  distance  on  foot  before  he 
halted  for  supper.  Here  he  was  again  for- 
tunate. An  empty  lumber  team  watering 


156  A    WAIF    OF  THE  PLAINS. 

at  the  same  spring,  its  driver  offered  to  take 
^Clarence's  purchases — for  the  boy  had 
profited  by  his  late  friend's  suggestion  to 
personally  detach  himself  from  his  equip- 
ment —  to  Buckeye  Mills  for  a  dollar,  which 
would  also  include  a  "  shakedown  passage  " 
for  himself  on  the  floor  of  the  wagon.  "  I 
reckon  you  've  been  foolin'  away  in  Sacra- 
mento the  money  yer  parents  give  yer  fur  re- 
turn stage  fare,  eh  ?  Don't  lie,  sonny,"  he 
added  grimly,  as  the  now  artful  Clarence 
smiled  diplomatically.  u  I  've  been  thar  my- 
self ! "  Luckily,  the  excuse  that  he  was 
"  tired  and  sleepy  "  prevented  further  dan- 
gerous questioning,  and  the  boy  was  soon 
really  in  deep  slumber  on  the  wagon  floor. 
v/He  awoke  betimes  to  find  himself  already 
in  the  mountains.  Buckeye  Mills  was  a 
straggling  settlement,  and  Clarence  pru- 
dently stopped  any  embarrassing  inquiry 
from  his  friend  by  dropping  off  the  wagon 
with  his  equipment  as  they  entered  it,  and 
hurriedly  saying  "  Good-by  "  from  a  cross- 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  157 

road  through  the  woods.  He  had  learned 
that  the  nearest  mining  camp  was  five  miles 
away,  and  its  direction  was  indicated  by  a 
long  wooden  "  flume,"  or  water-way,  that  al- 
ternately appeared  and  disappeared  on  the 
flank  of  the  mountain  opposite.  The  cooler 
and  drier  air,  the  grateful  shadow  of  pine 
and  bay,  and  the  spicy  balsamic  odors  that 
everywhere  greeted  him  thrilled  and  exhil- 
arated him.  The  trail  plunging  sometimes 
into  an  undisturbed  forest,  he  started  the 
birds  before  him  like  a  flight  of  arrows 
through  its  dim  recesses ;  at  times  he  hung 
breathlessly  over  the  blue  depths  of  canons 
where  the  same  forests  were  repeated  a  thou- 
sand feet  below.  Towards  noon  he  struck 
into  a  rude  road — evidently  the  thorough- 
fare of  the  locality  —  and  was  surprised  to 
find  that  it,  as  well  as  the  adjacent  soil 
wherever  disturbed,  was  a  deep  Indian  red. 
Everywhere,  along  its  sides,  powdering  the 
banks  and  boles  of  trees  with  its  ruddy 
stain,  in  mounds  and  hillocks  of  piled  dirt 


158  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

on  the  road,  or  in  liquid  paint-like  pools, 
when  a  trickling  stream  had  formed  a  gutter 
across  it,  there  was  always  the  same  deep 
sanguinary  color.  Once  or  twice  it  became 
more  vivid  in  contrast  with  the  white  teeth 
of  quartz  that  peeped  through  it  from  the 
hillside  or  crossed  the  road  in  crumbled 
strata.  One  of  those  pieces  Clarence  picked 
up  with  a  quickened  pulse.  It  was  veined 
and  streaked  with  shining  mica  and  tiny 
glittering  cubes  of  mineral  that  looked  like 
gold! 

The  road  now  began  to  descend  towards  a 
winding  stream,  shrunken  by  drought  and 
ditching,  that  glared  dazzlingly  in  the  sun- 
light from  its  white  bars  of  sand,  or  glis- 
tened in  shining  sheets  and  chanpels.  Along 
its  banks,  and  even  encroaching  upon  its 
bed,  were  scattered  a  few  mud  cabins, 
strange-looking  wooden  troughs  and  gutters, 
and  here  and  there,  glancing  through  the 
leaves,  the  white  canvas  of  tents.  The 
stumps  of  felled  trees  and  blackened  spaces, 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  159 

as  of  recent  fires,  marked  the  stream  on 
either  side.  A  sudden  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment overcame  Clarence.  It  looked  vulgar, 
common,  and  worse  than  all — familiar. 
It  was  like  the  unlovely  outskirts  of  a  dozen 
other  prosaic  settlements  he  had  seen  in 
less  romantic  localities.  In  that  muddy  red 
stream,  pouring  out  of  a  wooden  gutter,  in 
which  three  or  four  bearded,  slouching,  half- 
naked  figures  were  raking  like  chifonniers, 
there  was  nothing  to  suggest  the  royal 
metal.  Yet  he  was  so  absorbed  in  gazing  at 
the  scene,  and  had  walked  so  rapidly  during 
the  past  few  minutes,  that  he  was  startled,  on 
turning  a  sharp  corner  of  the  road,  to  come 
abruptly  upon  an  outlying  dwelling. 

It  was  a  nondescript  building,  half  canvas 
and  half  boards.  The  interior  seen  through 
the  open  door  was  fitted  up  with  side  shelves, 
a  counter  carelessly  piled  with  provisions, 
groceries,  clothing,  and  hardware  —  with  no 
attempt  at  display  or  even  ordinary  selec- 
tion—  and  a  table,  on  which  stood  a  demi- 


160  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

John  and  three  or  four  dirty  glasses.  Two 
roughly  dressed  men,  whose  long,  matted 
beards  and  hair  left  only  their  eyes  and  lips 
visible  in  the  tangled  hirsute  wilderness  be- 
low their  slouched  hats,  were  leaning  against 
the  opposite  sides  of  the  doorway,  smoking. 
Almost  thrown  against  them  in  the  rapid 
momentum  of  his  descent,  Clarence  halted 
violently. 

"  Well,  sonny,  you  need  n't  capsize  the 
shanty,"  said  the  first  man,  without  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  lips. 

"  If  yer  looking  fur  yer  ma,  she  and  yer 
Aunt  Jane  hev  jest  gone  over  to  Parson 
Doolittle's  to  take  tea,"  observed  the  second 
man  lazily.  "  She  allowed  that  you  'd  wait." 

"  I  'm  —  I  'm  —  going  to  —  to.  the  mines," 
explained  Clarence,  with  some  hesitation. 
"  I  suppose  this  is  the  way." 

The  two  men  took  their  pipes  from  their 
lips,  looked  at  each  other,  completely  wiped 
every  vestige  of  expression  from  their  faces 
with  the  back  of  their  hands,  turned  their 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  161 

eyes  into  the  interior  of  the  cabin,  and  said, 
"  Will  yer  come  yer,  now  will  yer?  "  Thus 
adjured,  half  a  dozen  men,  also  bearded  and 
carrying  pipes  in  their  mouths,  straggled  out 
of  the  shanty,  and,  filing  in  front  of  it, 
squatted  down,  with  their  backs  against  the 
boards,  and  gazed  comfortably  at  the  boy. 
Clarence  began  to  feel  uneasy. 

"  I  '11  give,"  said  one,  taking  out  his  pipe 
and  grimly  eying  Clarence,  "  a  hundred  dol- 
lars for  him  as  he  stands." 

"And  seein'  as  he's  got  that  bran-new 
rig-out  o'  tools,"  said  another,  "  I  '11  give  a 
hundred  and  fifty  —  and  the  drinks.  I've 
been,"  he  added  apologetically,  "  wan  tin' 
suthin'  like  this  a  long  time." 

"  Well,  gen'lemen,"  said  the  man  who 
had  first  spoken  to  him,  "  lookin'  at  him  by 
and  large  ;  takin'  in,  so  to  speak,  the  gin'ral 
gait  of  him  in  single  harness ;  bearin'  in 
mind  the  perfect  freshness  of  him,  and  the 
coolness  and  size  of  his  cheek  —  the  easy 
downyness,  previousness,  and  utter  don't- 


162  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

care-a-damnativeness  of  his  coming  yer,  I 
think  two  hundred  ain't  too  much  for  him, 
and  we  '11  call  it  a  bargain." 

Clarence's  previous  experience  of  this 
grim,  smileless  Californian  chaff  was  not 
calculated  to  restore  his  confidence.  He 
drew  away  from  the  cabin,  and  repeated 
doggedly,  "  I  asked  you  if  this  was  the  way 
to  the  mines." 

"  It  are  the  mines,  and  these  yere  are  the 
miners,"  said  the  first  speaker  gravely. 
"  Permit  me  to  interdoose  'em.  This  yere  's 
Shasta  Jim,  this  yere  's  Shortcard  Billy,  this 
is  Nasty  Bob,  and  this  Slumgullion  Dick. 
This  yere 's  the  Dook  o'  Chatham  Street,  the 
Livin'  Skeleton,  and  me  !  " 

"  May  we  ask,  fair  young  sir$"  said  the 
Living  Skeleton,  who,  however,  seemed  in 
fairly  robust  condition,  "  whence  came  ye  on 
the  wings  of  the  morning,  and  whose  Marble 
Halls  ye  hev  left  desolate?  " 

"  I  came  across  the  plains,  and  got  into 
Stockton  two  days  ago  on  Mr.  Peyton's 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  163 

train,"  said  Clarence,  indignantly,  seeing  no 
reason  now  to  conceal  anything.  "  I  came 
to  Sacramento  to  find  my  cousin,  who  is  n't 
living  there  any  more.  I  don't  see  anything 
funny  in  that !  I  came  here  to  the  mines  to 
dig  gold  —  because  —  because  Mr.  Silsbee, 
the  man  who  was  to  bring  me  here  and 
might  have  found  my  cousin  for  me,  was 
killed  by  Indians." 

"  Hold  up,  sonny.  Let  me  help  ye,"  said 
the  first  speaker,  rising  to  his  feet.  '"''You 
did  n't  get  killed  by  Injins  because  you  got 
lost  out  of  a  train  with  Silsbee's  infant  dar- 
ter. Peyton  picked  you  up  while  you  was 
takin'  care  of  her,  and  two  days  arter  you 
kem  up  to  the  broken-down  Silsbee  wagons, 
with  all  the  folks  lyin'  there  slartered." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  breathless  with 
astonishment. 

"  And,"  continued  the  man,  putting  his 
hand  gravely  to  his  head  as  if  to  assist  his 
memory,  "when  you  was  all  alone  on  the 
plains  with  that  little  child  you  saw  one  of 


164  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

those  redskins,  as  near  to  you  as  I  be, 
watchin'  the  train,  and  you  did  n't  breathe 
or  move  while  he  was  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Clarence  eagerly. 

"  And  you  was  shot  at  by  Peyton,  he 
thinkin'  you  was  an  Injin  in  the  mesquite 
grass  ?  And  you  once  shot  a  buffalo  that 
had  been  pitched  with  you  down  a  gully  — 
all  by  yourself?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence,  crimson  with  wonder 
and  pleasure.  "  You  know  me,  then  ?  " 

"Well,  ye-e-es,"  said  the  man  gravely, 
parting  his  mustache  with  his  fingers.  "  You 
see,  you  've  been  here  before.19 

"  Before !  Me  ?  "  repeated  the  astounded 
Clarence. 

"  Yes,  before.  Last  night.  Ypu  was  taller 
then,  and  had  n't  cut  your  hair.  You  cursed 
a  good  deal  more  than  you  do  now.  You 
drank  a  man's  share  of  whiskey,  and  you 
borrowed  fifty  dollars  to  get  to  Sacramento 
with.  I  reckon  you  have  n't  got  it  about 
you  now,  eh  ?  " 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  165 

Clarence's  brain  reeled  in  utter  confusion 
and  hopeless  terror. 

Was  he  going  crazy,  or  had  these  cruel 
men  learned  his  story  from  his  faithless 
friends,  and  this  was  a  part  of  the  plot  ? 
He  staggered  forward,  but  the  men  had 
risen  and  quickly  encircled  him,  as  if  to 
prevent  his  escape.  In  vague  and  helpless 
desperation  he  gasped  — 

"  What  place  is  this  ?  " 

"  Folks  call  it  Deadman's  Gulch." 

Deadman's  Gulch !  A  flash  of  intelli- 
gence lit  up  the  boy's  blind  confusion. 
Deadman's  Gulch  !  Could  it  have  been  Jim 
Hooker  who  had  really  run  away,  and  had 
taken  his  name?  He  turned  half  implor- 
ingly to  the  first  speaker. 

"  Was  n't  he  older  than  me,  and  bigger  ? 
Did  n't  he  have  a  smooth,  round  face  and 
little  eyes  ?  Did  n't  he  talk  hoarse  ?  Did 
n't  he"  —  He  stopped  hopelessly. 

"  Yes ;  oh,  he  was  n't  a  bit  like  you," 
said  the  man  musingly.  "  Ye  see,  that  'a 


166  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

the  h-11  of  it !  You  're  altogether  too  many 
•  and  too  various  fur  this  camp." 
/x^4*!  don't  know  who 's  been  here  before,  or 
what  they  have  said,"  said  Clarence  des- 
perately, yet  even  in  that  desperation  re- 
taining the  dogged  loyalty  to  his  old  play- 
mate which  was  part  of  his  nature.  "  I 
don't  know,  and  I  don't  care  —  there !  I  'm 
Clarence  Brant,  of  Kentucky ;  I  started  in 
Silsbee's  train  from  St.  Jo,  and  I  'm  going 
to  the  mines,  and  you  can't  stop  me  !  " 

The  man  who  had  first  spoken  started, 
looked  keenly  at  Clarence,  and  then  turned 
to  the  others.  The  gentleman  known  as  the 
Living  Skeleton  had  obtruded  his  huge  bulk 
in  front  of  the  boy,  and,  gazing  at  him,  said 
reflectively,  "  Darned  if  it  don'4;  •  look  like 
one  of  Brant's  pups  —  sure !  " 

"  Air  ye  any  relation  to  Kernel  Hamil- 
ton Brant,  of  Looey  ville  ?  "  asked  the  first 
speaker. 

Again  that  old  question  !  Poor  Clarence 
hesitated,  despairingly.  Was  he  to  go 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  167 

through  the  same  cross-examination  he  had 
undergone  with  "the  Peytons  ?  "  Yes,"  he 
said  doggedly,  "  I  am  —  but  he  's  dead, 
and  you  know  it." 

"  Dead  —  of  course."  "  Sartin."  "  He  's 
dead."  "  The  Kernel 's  planted,"  said  the 
men  in  chorus. 

u  Well,  yes,"  reflected  the  Living  Skele- 
ton ostentatiously,  as  one  who  spoke  from 
experience.  "  Hani  Brant 's  about  as  bony 
now  as  they  make  'em." 

"You  bet!  About  the  dustiest,  deadest 
corpse  you  kin  turn  out,"  corroborated  Slum- 
gullion  Dick,  nodding  his  head  gloomily  to 
the  others  ;  "  in  point  o'  f ack,  es  a  corpse, 
about  the  last  one  I  should  keer  to  go 
huntin'  fur." 

"  The  Kernel's  tech  'ud  be  cold  and 
clammy,"  concluded  the  Duke  of  Chatham 
Street,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  "  sure.  But 
what  did  yer  mammy  say  about  it  ?  Is  she 
gettin'  married  agin?  Did  she  send  ye 
here?" 


168  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

It  seemed  to  Clarence  that  the  Duke  of 
Chatham  Street  here  received  a  kick  from 
his  companions ;  but  the  boy  repeated  dog- 
gedly — 

"  I  came  to  Sacramento  to  find  my  cousin, 
Jackson  Brant ;  but  he  was  n't  there." 

"  Jackson  Brant  !  "  echoed  the  first 
speaker,  glancing  at  the  others.  "  Did  your 
mother  say  he  was  your  cousin  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence  wearily.     "  Good- 

by." 

"  Hullo,  sonny,  where  are  you  going?  " 
"  To  dig  gold,"  said  the  boy.  "  And  you 
know  you  can't  prevent  me,  if  it  is  n't  on 
your  claim.  I  know  the  law."  He  had 
heard  Mr.  Peyton  discuss  it  at  Stockton,  and 
he  fancied  that  the  men,  who  were  whisper- 
ing among  themselves,  looked  kinder  than 
before,  and  as  if  they  were  no  longer  "  act- 
ing "  to  him.  The  first  speaker  laid  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  "  All  right, 
come  with  me,  and  I  '11  show  you  where  to 
dig." 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  169 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Clarence.  "  You 
called  yourself  only  '  me.'  " 

"  Well,  you  can  call  me  Flynn  —  Tom 
Flynn." 

"  And  you  '11  show  me  where  I  can  dig  — 
myself?" 

"I  will." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Clarence  timidly, 
yet  with  a  half -conscious  smile,  "  that  I  —  I 
kinder  bring  luck  ?  " 

The  man  looked  down  upon  him,  and 
said  gravely,  but,  as  it  struck  Clarence,  with 
a  new  kind  of  gravity,  "  I  believe  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence  eagerly,  as  they 
walked  along  together,  "  I  brought  luck  to  a 
man  in  Sacramento  the  other  day."  And  he 
related  with  great  earnestness  his  experience 
in  the  gambling  saloon.  Not  content  with 
that  —  the  sealed  fountains  of  his  childish 
deep  being  broken  up  by  some  mysterious 
sympathy  —  he  spoke  of  his  hospitable  ex- 
ploit with  the  passengers  at  the  wayside  bar, 
of  the  finding  of  his  Fortunatus  purse  and 


170  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

his  deposit  at  the  bank.  Whether  that  char- 
acteristic old-fashioned  reticence  which  had 
been  such  an  important  factor  for  good  or 
ill  in  his  future  had  suddenly  deserted  him, 
or  whether  some  extraordinary  prepossession 
in  his  companion  had  affected  him,  he  did 
not  know ;  but  by  the  time  the  pair  had 
reached  the  hillside  Flynn  was  in  possession 
of  all  the  boy's  history.  On  one  point  only 
was  his  reserve  unshaken.  Conscious  al- 
though he  was  of  Jim  Hooker's  duplicity,  he 
affected  to  treat  it  as  a  comrade's  joke. 

They  halted  at  last  in  the  middle  of  an 
apparently  fertile  hillside.  Clarence  shifted 
his  shovel  from  his  shoulders,  unslung  his 
pan,  and  looked  at  Flynn.  "  Dig  anywhere 
here,  where  you  like,"  said  his  .companion 
carelessly,  "  and  you  '11  be  sure  to  find  the 
color.  Fill  your  pan  with  the  dirt,  go  to 
that  sluice,  and  let  the  water  run  in  on  the 
top  of  the  pan  —  workin'  it  round  so,"  he 
added,  illustrating  a  rotary  motion  with  the 
vessel.  "  Keep  doing  that  until  all  the  soil 


A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  171 

is  washed  out  of  it,  and  you  have  only  the 
black  sand  at  the  bottom.  Then  work  that 
the  same  way  until  you  see  the  color. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  washing  the  gold  out  of 
the  pan  —  you  could  n't  do  it  if  you  tried. 
There,  I  '11  leave  you  here,  and  you  wait  till 
I  come  back."  With  another  grave  nod 
and  something  like  a  smile  in  the  only  visi- 
ble part  of  his  bearded  face  —  his  eyes  —  he 
strode  rapidly  away. 

Clarence  did  not  lose  time.  Selecting  a 
spot  where  the  grass  was  less  thick,  he  broke 
through  the  soil  and  turned  up  two  or  three 
spadefuls  of  red  soil.  When  he  had  filled 
the  pan  and  raised  it  to  his  shoulder,  he  was 
astounded  at  its  weight.  He  did  not  know 
that  it  was  due  to  the  red  precipitate  of  iron 
that  gave  it  its  color.  Staggering  along 
with  his  burden  to  the  running  sluice,  which 
looked  like  an  open  wooden  gutter,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  he  began  to  carefully  carry 
out  Flynn's  direction.  The  first  dip  of  the 
pan  in  the  running  water  carried  off  half  the 


172  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

contents  of  the  pan  in  liquid  paint-like  ooze. 
For  a  moment  he  gave  way  to  boyish  satis- 
faction in  the  sight  and  touch  of  this  unctu- 
ous solution,  and  dabbled  his  fingers  in  it. 
A  few  moments  more  of  rinsing  and  he 
came  to  the  sediment  of  fine  black  sand  that 
was  beneath  it.  Another  plunge  and  swill- 
ing of  water  in  the  pan,  and  —  could  he  be- 
lieve his  eyes !  —  a  few  yellow  tiny  scales, 
scarcely  larger  than  pins'  heads,  glittered 
among  the  sand.  He  poured  it  off.  But 
his  companion  was  right;  the  lighter  sand 
shifted  from  side  to  side  with  the  water,  but 
the  glittering  points  remained  adhering  by 
their  own  tiny  specific  gravity  to  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  bottom.  It  was  "  the  color  " 
—  gold! 

Clarence's  heart  seemed  to  give  a  great 
leap  within  him.  A  vision  of  wealth,  of  in- 
dependence, of  power,  sprang  before  his  daz- 
zled eyes,  and  —  a  hand  lightly  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

He  started.      In  his  complete  preoccupa- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  173 

tion  and  excitement,  he  had  not  heard  the 
clatter  of  horse-hoofs,  and  to  his  amazement 
Flynn  was  already  beside  him,  mounted,  and 
leading  a  second  horse. 

"  You  kin  ride  ?  "  he  said  shortly. 

"  Yes,"  stammered  Clarence ;  "  but  "  — 

"  But  —  we  've  only  got  two  hours  to  reach 
Buckeye  Mills  in  time  to  catch  the  down 
stage.  Drop  all  that,  jump  up,  and  come 
with  me !  " 

"  But  I  've  just  found  gold,"  said  the  boy 
excitedly. 

"  And  I  've  just  found  your  —  cousin. 
Come !  " 

He  spurred  his  horse  across  Clarence's 
scattered  implements,  half  helped,  half 
lifted,  the  boy  into  the  saddle  of  the  second 
horse,  and,  with  a  cut  of  his  riata  over  the 
animal's  haunches,  the  next  moment  they 
were  both  galloping  furiously  away. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TORN  suddenly  from  his  prospective  fu- 
ture, but  too  much  dominated  by  the  man 
beside  him  to  protest,  Clarence  was  silent 
until  a  rise  in  the  road,  a  few  minutes  later, 
partly  abated  their  headlong  speed,  and  gave 
him  chance  to  recover  his  breath  and  cour- 
age. 

"  Where  is  my  cousin?  "  he  asked. 

"  In  the  Southern  county,  two  hundred 
miles  from  here." 

"  Are  we  going  to  him  ?  " 

"Yes." 

They  rode  furiously  forward  again.  It 
was  nearly  half  an  hour  before  they  came  to 
a  longer  ascent.  Clarence  could  see  that 
Flynn  was  from  time  to  time  examining  him 
curiously  under  his  slouched  hat.  This 
somewhat  embarrassed  him,  but  in  his  sin- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  175 

gular  confidence  in  the  man  no  distrust  min- 
gled with  it. 

u  Ye  never  saw  your  —  cousin  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Clarence  ;  "  nor  he  me.  I 
don't  think  he  knew  me  much,  any  way." 

"  How  old  mout  ye  be,  Clarence  ?  " 

"  Eleven." 

"  Well,  as  you  're  suthin  of  a  pup "  — 
Clarence  started,  and  recalled  Peyton's  first 
criticism  of  him  —  "I  reckon  to  tell  ye  suthin. 
Ye  ain't  goin'  to  be  skeert,  or  afeard,  or  lose 
yer  sand,  I  kalkilate,  for  skunkin'  ain't  in 
your  breed.  Well,  wot  ef  I  told  ye  that 
thish  yer  —  thish  yer  —  cousin  o'  yours  was 
the  biggest  devil  onhung ;  that  he  'd  just 
killed  a  man,  and  had  to  lite  out  elsewhere, 
and  thet  's  why  he  did  n't  show  up  in  Sacra- 
mento —  what  if  I  told  you  that  ?  " 

Clarence  felt  that  this  was  somehow  a  lit- 
tle too  much.  He  was  perfectly  truthful, 
and  lifting  his  frank  eyes  to  Flynn,  he  said, 

"  I  should  think  you  were  talking  a  good 
deal  like  Jim  Hooker !  " 


176  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

His  companion  stared,  and  suddenly 
reined  up  his  horse ;  then,  bursting  into  a 
shout  of  laughter,  he  galloped  ahead,  from 
time  to  time  shaking  his  head,  slapping  his 
legs,  and  making  the  dim  woods  ring  with 
his  boisterous  mirth.  Then  as  suddenly  be- 
coming thoughtful  again,  he  rode  on  rapidly 
for  half  an  hour,  only  speaking  to  Clarence 
to  urge  him  forward,  and  assisting  his  pro- 
gress by  lashing  the  haunches  of  his  horse. 
Luckily,  the  boy  was  a  good  rider  —  a  fact 
which  Flynn  seemed  to  thoroughly  appre- 
ciate —  or  he  would  have  been  unseated  a 
dozen  times. 

At  last  the  straggling  sheds  of  Buckeye 
Mills  came  into  softer  purple  view  on  the 
opposite  mountain.  Then  laying,  his  hand 
on  Clarence's  shoulder  as  he  reined  in  at  his 
side,  Flynn  broke  the  silence. 

"  There,  boy,"  he  said,  wiping  the  mirth- 
ful tears  from  his  eyes.  "  I  was  only  f oolin' 
—  only  tryin'  yer  grit !  This  yer  cousin 
I'm  taking  you  to  ez  as  quiet  and  soft- 


A   WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  177 

spoken  and  as  old-fashioned  ez  you  be. 
Why,  he  's  that  wrapped  up  in  books  and 
study  that  he  lives  alone  in  a  big  adobe  ran- 
cherie  among  a  lot  o'  Spanish,  and  he  don't 
keer  to  see  his  own  countrymen !  Why, 
he  's  even  changed  his  name,  and  calls  him- 
self Don  Juan  Robinson  !  But  he 's  very 
rich;  he  owns  three  leagues  of  land  and 
heaps  of  cattle  and  horses,  and,"  glancing 
approvingly  at  Clarence's  seat  in  the  saddle, 
"  I  reckon  you  '11  hev  plenty  of  fun  thar." 

"  But,"  hesitated  Clarence,  to  whom  this 
proposal  seemed  only  a  repetition  of  Pey- 
ton's charitable  offer,  "  I  think  I  'd  better 
stay  here  and  dig  gold  —  with  you" 

"  And  I  think  you  'd  better  not,"  said  the 
man,  with  a  gravity  that  was  very  like  a 
settled  determination. 

"  But  my  cousin  never  came  for  me  to 
Sacramento  —  nor  sent,  nor  even  wrote," 
persisted  Clarence  indignantly. 

"  Not  to  you,  boy ;  but  he  wrote  to  the 
man  whom  he  reckoned  would  bring  you 


178  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

there  —  Jack  Silsbee  —  and  left  it  in  the 
care  of  the  bank.  And  Silsbee,  being  dead, 
did  n't  come  for  the  letter ;  and  as  you  did 
n't  ask  for  it  when  you  came,  and  did  n't 
even  mention  Silsbee's  name,  that  same  let- 
ter was  sent  back  to  your  cousin  through 
me,  because  the  bank  thought  we  knew  his 
whereabouts.  It  came  to  the  gulch  by  an 
express  rider,  whilst  you  were  prospectin' 
on  the  hillside.  Rememberin'  your  story,  I 
took  the  liberty  of  opening  it,  and  found  out 
that  your  cousin  had  told  Silsbee  to  bring 
you  straight  to  him.  So  I  'm  only  doin' 
now  what  Silsbee  would  have  done." 
I/Any  momentary  doubt  or  suspicion  that 
might  have  risen  in  Clarence's  mind  vanished 
as  he  met  his  companion's  steady,  and  master- 
ful eye.  Even  his  disappointment  was  for- 
gotten in  the  charm  of  this  new-found  friend- 
ship and  protection.  And  as  its  outset  had 
been  marked  by  an  unusual  burst  of  con- 
fidence on  Clarence's  part,  the  boy,  in  his 
gratitude,  now  felt  something  of  the  timid 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  179 

shyness  of  a  deeper  feeling,  and  once  more 
became  reticent. 

They  were  in  time  to  snatch  a  hasty  meal 
at  Buckeye  Mills  before  the  stage  arrived, 
and  Clarence  noticed  that  his  friend,  despite 
his  rough  dress  and  lawless  aspect,  pro- 
voked a  marked  degree  of  respect  from  those 
he  met  —  in  which,  perhaps,  a  wholesome 
fear  was  mingled.  It  is  certain  that  the  two 
best  places  in  the  stage  were  given  up  to 
them  without  protest,  and  that  a  careless, 
almost  supercilious  invitation  to  drink  from 
Flynn  was  responded  to  with  singular  alac- 
rity by  all,  including  even  two  fastidiously 
dressed  and  previously  reserved  passengers. 
I  am  afraid  that  Clarence  enjoyed  this  proof 
of  his  friend's  singular  dominance  with  a 
boyish  pride,  and,  conscious  of  the  curious 
eyes  of  the  passengers,  directed  occasionally 
to  himself,  was  somewhat  ostentatious  in  his 
familiarity  with  this  bearded  autocrat. 

At  noon  the  next  day  they  left  the  stage 
at  a  wayside  road  station,  and  Flynn  briefly 


180  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

informed  Clarence  that  they  must  again 
take  horses.  This  at  first  seemed  difficult  in 
that  out-of-the-way  settlement,  where  they 
alone  had  stopped,  but  a  whisper  from  the 
driver  in  the  ear  of  the  station-master  pro- 
duced a  couple  of  fiery  mustangs,  with  the 
same  accompaniment  of  cautious  awe  and 
mystery.  For  the  next  two  days  they  traveled 
on  horseback,  resting  by  night  at  the  lodg- 
ings of  one  or  other  of  Flynn's  friends  in  the 
outskirts  of  a  large  town,  where  they  arrived 
in  the  darkness,  and  left  before  day.  To 
any  one  more  experienced  than  the  simple- 
minded  boy  it  would  have  been  evident  that 
Flynn  was  purposely  avoiding  the  more 
traveled  roads  and  conveyances ;  and  when 
they  changed  horses  again  the  ne^t  day's  ride 
was  through  an  apparently  unbroken  wilder- 
ness of  scattered  wood  and  rolling  plain. 
Yet  to  Clarence,  with  his  pantheistic  reli- 
ance and  joyous  sympathy  with  nature,  the 
change  was  filled  with  exhilarating  pleasure. 
The  vast  seas  of  tossing  wild  oats,  the  hill- 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  181 

side  still  variegated  with  strange  flowers,  the 
virgin  freshness  of  untrodden  woods  and 
leafy  aisles,  whose  floors  of  moss  or  bark 
were  undisturbed  by  human  footprint,  were 
a  keen  delight  and  novelty.  More  than  this, 
his  quick  eye,  trained  perceptions,  and  fron- 
tier knowledge  now  stood  him  in  good  stead. 
His  intuitive  sense  of  distance,  instincts  of 
wood-craft,  and  his  unerring  detection  of 
those  signs,  landmarks,  and  guide-posts  of 
nature,  undistinguishable  to  aught  but  birds 
and  beasts  and  some  children,  were  now  of 
the  greatest  service  to  his  less  favored  com- 
panion. In  this  part  of  their  strange  pil- 
grimage it  was  the  boy  who  took  the  lead. 
Flynn,  who  during  the  past  two  days  seemed 
to  have  fallen  into  a  mood  of  watchful  re- 
serve, nodded  his  approbation.  "This  sort 
of  thing  's  yer  best  holt,  boy,"  he  said. 
"  Men  and  cities  ain't  your  little  game." 

At  the  next  stopping-place  Clarence  had 
a  surprise.  They  had  again  entered  a  town 
at  nightfall,  and  lodged  with  another  friend 


182  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

of  Flynn's  in  rooms  which  from  vague  sounds 
appeared  to  be  over  a  gambling  saloon. 
Clarence  woke  late  in  the  morning,  and,  de- 
scending into  the  street  to  mount  for  the 
day's  journey,  was  startled  to  find  that  Flynn 
was  not  on  the  other  horse,  but  that  a  well- 
dressed  and  handsome  stranger  had  taken 
his  place.  But  a  laugh,  and  the  familiar 
command,  "  Jump  up,  boy,"  made  him  look 
again.  It  was  Flynn,  but  completely  shaven 
of  beard  and  mustache,  closely  clipped  of 
hair,  and  in  a  fastidiously  cut  suit  of  black ! 

"  Then  you  did  n't  know  me  ?  "  said  Flynn. 

"  Not  till  you  spoke,"  replied  Clarence. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  his  friend 
sententiously,  as  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse. 
I  But  as  they  cantered  through  ^  the  street, 
Clarence,  who  had  already  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  stranger's  hirsute  adornment, 
felt  a  little  more  awe  of  him.  The  profile 
of  the  mouth  and  chin  now  exposed  to  his 
sidelong  glance  was  hard  and  stern,  and 
slightly  saturnine.  Although  unable  at  the 


A   WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  183 

time  to  identify  it  with  anybody  he  had  ever 
known,  it  seemed  to  the  imaginative  boy  to 
be  vaguely  connected  with  some  sad  expe- 
rience.  But  the  eyes  were  thoughtful  and 
kindly,  and  the  boy  later  believed  that  if  he 
had  been  more  familiar  with  the  face  he 
would  have  loved  it  better.  For  it  was  the 
last  and  only  day  he  was  to  see  it,  as,  late 
that  afternoon,  after  a  dusty  ride  along  more 
traveled  highways,  they  reached  their  jour- 
ney's end. 

It  was  a  low-walled  house,  with  red-tiled 
roofs  showing  against  the  dark  green  of  ven- 
erable pear  and  fig  trees,  and  a  square  court- 
yard in  the  centre,  where  they  had  dis- 
mounted. A  few  words  in  Spanish  from 
Flynn  to  one  of  the  lounging  peons  admitted 
them  to  a  wooden  corridor,  and  thence  to  a 
long,  low  room,  which  to  Clarence's  eyes 
seemed  literally  piled  with  books  and  en- 
gravings. Here  Flynn  hurriedly  bade  him 
stay  while  he  sought  the  host  in  another 
part  of  the  building.  But  Clarence  did  not 


184  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

miss  him ;  indeed,  it  may  be  feared,  he  for- 
got even  the  object  of  their  journey  in  the 
new  sensations  that  suddenly  thronged  upon 
him,  and  the  boyish  vista  of  the  future  that 
they  seemed  to  open.  He  was  dazed  and  in- 
toxicated. He  had  never  seen  so  many  books 
before ;  he  had  never  conceived  of  such 
lovely  pictures.  And  yet  in  some  vague  way 
he  thought  he  must  have  dreamt  of  them 
at  some  time.  He  had  mounted  a  chair,  and 
was  gazing  spellbound  at  an  engraving  of  a 
sea-fight,  when  he  heard  Flynn's  voice. 

His  friend  had  quietly  reentered  the  room, 
in  company  with  an  oldish,  half-foreign-look- 
ing man,  evidently  his  relation.  With  no 
helping  recollection,  with  no  means  of  com- 
parison beyond  a  vague  idea  that. his  cousin 
might  look  like  himself,  Clarence  stood 
hopelessly  before  him.  He  had  already  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  have  to  go 
through  the  usual  cross-questioning  in  re- 
gard to  his  father  and  family  ;  he  had  even 
forlornly  thought  of  inventing  some  inno- 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  185 

cent  details  to  fill  out  his  imperfect  and 
unsatisfactory  recollection.  But,  glancing 
up,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  elderly 
cousin  was  as  embarrassed  as  he  was.  Flynn, 
as  usual,  masterfully  interposed. 

"  Of  course  ye  don't  remember  each  other, 
and  thar  ain't  much  that  either  of  you  knows 
about  family  matters,  I  reckon,"  he  said 
grimly ;  "  and  as  your  cousin  calls  himself 
Don  Juan  Robinson,"  he  added  to  Clarence, 
"  it 's  just  as  well  that  you  let  '  Jackson 
Brant '  slide.  I  know  him  better  than  you, 
but  you  '11  get  used  to  him,  and  he  to  you, 
soon  enough.  At  least,  you  'd  better,"  he 
concluded,  with  his  singular  gravity. 

As  he  turned  as  if  to  leave  the  room  with 
Clarence's  embarrassed  relative  —  much  to 
that  gentleman's  apparent  relief —  the  boy 
looked  up  at  the  latter  and  said  timidly  — 

"  May  I  look  at  those  books  ?  'A/ 

His  cousin  stopped,  and  glanced  at  him 
with  the  first  expression  of  interest  he  had 
shown. 


186  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

"  Ah,  you  read  ;  you  like  books  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence.  As  his  cousin  re- 
mained still  looking  at  him  thoughtfully,  he 
added,  "  My  hands  are  pretty  clean,  but  I 
can  wash  them  first,  if  you  like." 

"  You  may  look  at  them,"  said  Don  Juan 
smilingly  ;  "  and  as  they  are  old  books  you 
can  wash  your  hands  afterwards."  And, 
turning  to  Flynn  suddenly,  with  an  air  of 
relief,  "  I  tell  you  what  I  '11  do  —  I  '11  teach 
him  Spanish ! " 

They  left  the  room  together,  and  Clarence 
turned  eagerly  to  the  shelves.  They  were 
old  books,  some  indeed  very  old,  queerly 
bound,  and  worm-eaten.  Some  were  in  for- 
eign languages,  but  others  in  clear,  bold 
English  type,  with  quaint  wood-cuts  and 
illustrations.  One  seemed  to  be  a  chronicle 
of  battles  and  sieges,  with  pictured  represen- 
tations of  combatants  spitted  with  arrows, 
cleanly  lopped  off  in  limb,  or  toppled  over 
distinctly  by  visible  cannon-shot.  He  was 
deep  in  its  perusal  when  he  heard  the  clatter 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  187 

of  horse's  hoofs  in  the  court-yard  and  the 
voice  of  Flynn.  He  ran  to  the  window,  and 
was  astonished  to  see  his  friend  already  on 
horseback,  taking  leave  of  his  host. 

For  one  instant  Clarence  felt  one  of  those 
sudden  revulsions  of  feeling  common  to  his 
age,  but  which  he  had  always  timidly  hidden 
under  dogged  demeanor.  Flynn,  his  only 
friend  !  Flynn,  his  only  boyish  confidant ! 
Flynn,  his  latest  hero,  was  going  away  and 
forsaking  him  without  a  word  of  parting ! 
It  was  true  that  he  had  only  agreed  to  take 
him  to  his  guardian,  but  still  Flynn  need 
not  have  left  him  without  a  word  of  hope  or 
encouragement !  With  any  one  else  Clar- 
ence would  probably  have  taken  refuge  in 
his  usual  Indian  stoicism,  but  the  same  feel- 
ing that  had  impelled  him  to  offer  Flynn  his 
boyish  confidences  on  their  first  meeting 
now  overpowered  him.  He  dropped  his 
book,  ran  out  into  the  corridor,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  courtyard,  just  as  Flynn  gal- 
loped out  from  the  arch. 


188  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

But  the  boy  uttered  a  despairing  shout 
that  reached  the  rider.  He  drew  rein, 
wheeled,  halted,  and  sat  facing  Clarence  im- 
patiently. To  add  to  Clarence's  embarrass- 
ment his  cousin  had  lingered  in  the  corridor, 
attracted  by  the  interruption,  and  a  peon, 
lounging  in  the  archway,  obsequiously  ap- 
proached Flynn's  bridle-rein.  But  the  rider 
waved  him  off,  and,  turning  sternly  to  Clar- 
ence, said  :  — 

"  What 's  the  matter  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Clarence,  striving  to  keep 
back  the  hot  tears  that  rose  in  his  eyes. 
"  But  you  were  going  away  without  saying 
4  good-by.'  You  've  been  very  kind  to  me, 
and  —  and  —  I  want  to  thank  you !  " 

A  deep  flush  crossed  Flynn's  face.  Then 
glancing  suspiciously  towards  the  corridor, 
he  said  hurriedly,  — 

"  Did  he  send  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  came  myself.     I  heard  you  going." 

"All  right.  Good-by."  He  leaned  for- 
ward as  if  about  to  take  Clarence's  out- 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  189 

stretched  hand,  checked  himself  suddenly 
with  a  grim  smile,  and  taking  from  his 
pocket  a  gold  coin  handed  it  to  the  boy. 

Clarence  took  it,  tossed  it  with  a  proud 
gesture  to  the  waiting  peon,  who  caught  it 
thankfully,  drew  back  a  step  from  Flynn, 
and  saying,  with  white  cheeks,  "  I  only 
wanted  to  say  good-by,"  dropped  his  hot 
eyes  to  the  ground.  But  it  did  not  seem  to 
be  his  own  voice  that  had  spoken,  nor  his 
own  self  that  had  prompted  the  act. 

There  was  a  quick  interchange  of  glances 
between  the  departing  guest  and  his  late 
host,  in  which  Flynn's  eyes  flashed  with  an 
odd,  admiring  fire,  but  when  Clarence  raised 
his  head  again  he  was  gone.  And  as  the 
boy  turned  back  with  a  broken  heart  towards 
the  corridor,  his  cousin  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  Muy  Mdalgamente,  Clarence,"  he  said 
pleasantly.  "  Yes,  we  shall  make  something 
of  you ! " 


CHAPTER  X. 

THEN  followed  to  Clarence  three  unevent- 
ful years.  During  that  interval  he  learnt 
that  Jackson  Brant,  or  Don  Juan  Robinson 
—  for  the  tie  of  kinship  was  the  least  factor 
in  their  relations  to  each  other,  and  after 
the  departure  of  Flynn  was  tacitly  ignored 
by  both  —  was  more  Spanish  than  Ameri- 
can. An  early  residence  in  Lower  Califor- 
nia, marriage  with  a  rich  Mexican  widow, 
whose  dying  childless  left  him  sole  heir,  and 
some  strange  restraining  idiosyncrasy  of 
temperament  had  quite  denationalized  him. 
A  bookish  recluse,  somewhat  superfastidious 
towards  his  own  countrymen,  the  more  Clar- 
ence knew  him  the  more  singular  appeared 
his  acquaintance  with  Flynn ;  but  as  he  did 
not  exhibit  more  communicativeness  on  this 
point  than  upon  their  own  kinship,  Clarence 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  191 

filially  concluded  that  it  was  due  to  the 
dominant  character  of  his  former  friend, 
and  thought  no  more  about  it.  He  entered 
upon  the  new  life  at  El  Refugio  with  no  dis- 
turbing past.  Quickly  adapting  himself  to 
the  lazy  freedom  of  this  hacienda  existence, 
he  spent  the  mornings  on  horseback  ranging 
the  hills  among  his  cousin's  cattle,  and  the 
afternoons  and  evenings  busied  among  his 
cousin's  books  with  equally  lawless  and  un- 
disciplined independence.  The  easy-going. 
Don  Juan,  it  is  true,  attempted  to  make 
good  his  rash  promise  to  teach  the  boy 
Spanish,  and  actually  set  him  a  few  tasks ; 
but  in  a  few  weeks  the  quick-witted  Clar- 
ence acquired  such  a  colloquial  proficiency 
from  his  casual  acquaintance  with  vaqueros 
and  small  traders  that  he  was  glad  to  leave 
the  matter  in  his  young  kinsman's  hands. 
Again,  by  one  of  those  illogical  sequences 
which  make  a  lifelong  reputation  depend 
upon  a  single  trivial  act,  Clarence's  social 
status  was  settled  forever  at  El  Refugio 


192  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

Rancho  by  his  picturesque  diversion  of 
Flynn's  parting  gift.  The  grateful  peon  to 
whom  the  boy  had  scornfully  tossed  the  coin 
repeated  the  act,  gesture,  and  spirit  of  the 
scene  to  his  companion,  and  Don  Juan's 
unknown  and  youthful  relation  was  at  once 
recognized  as  hijo  de  la  familia,  and  un- 
deniably a  hidalgo  born  and  bred.  But  in 
the  more  vivid  imagination  of  feminine  El 
Refugio  the  incident  reached  its  highest 
poetic  form.  "  It  is  true,  Mother  of  God," 
said  Chucha  of  the  Mill ;  "  it  was  Domingo 
who  himself  relates  it  as  it  were  the  Creed. 
When  the  American  escort  has  arrived  with 
the  young  gentleman,  this  escort,  look  you, 
being  not  of  the  same  quality,  he  is  depart- 
ing again  without  a  word  of^  permission. 
Comes  to  him  at  this  moment  my  little 
hidalgo.  'You  have  yourself  forgotten  to 
take  from  me  your  demission,'  he  said.  This 
escort,  thinking  to  make  his  peace  with  a 
mere  muchacho,  gives  to  him  a  gold  piece  of 
twenty  pesos.  The  little  hidalgo  has  taken 


A   WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  193 

it  so,  and  with  the  words,  '  Ah !  you  would 
make  of  me  your  almoner  to  my  cousin's 
people,'  has  given  it  at  the  moment  to  Do- 
mingo, and  with  a  grace  and  fire  admirable." 
But  it  is  certain  that  Clarence's  singular 
simplicity  and  truthfulness,  a  faculty  of 
being  picturesquely  indolent  in  a  way  that 
suggested  a  dreamy  abstraction  of  mind 
rather  than  any  vulgar  tendency  to  bodily 
ease  and  comfort,  and  possibly  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  good  horseman,  made  him  a  pop- 
ular hero  at  El  Refugio.  Aithe^end__.a£- 
three  years  Don  Juan  found  "that  this  inex- 
perienced and  apparently  idle  boy  of  four- 
teen knew  more  of  the  practical  ruling  of 
the  ranche  than  he  did  himself;  also  that 
this  unlettered  young  rustic  had  devoured 
nearly  all  the  books  in  his  library  with  boy- 
ish recklessness  of  digestion.  He  found, 
too,  that  in  spite  of  his  singular  indepen- 
dence of  action,  Clarence  was  possessed  of 
an  invincible  loyalty  of  principle,  and  that, 
asking  no  sentimental  affection,  and  indeed 


194  A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

yielding  none,  he  was,  without  presuming  on 
his  relationship,  devoted  to  his  cousin's  in- 
terest. It  seemed  that  from  being  a  glan- 
cing ray  of  sunshine  in  the  house,  evasive 
but  never  obtrusive,  he  had  become  a  daily 
necessity  of  comfort  and  security  to  his  ben- 
efactor. 

Clarence  was,  however,  astonished,  when, 
one  morning,  Don  Juan,  with  the  same  em- 
barrassed manner  he  had  shown  at  their 
first  meeting,  suddenly  asked  him,  "  what 
business  he  expected  to  follow."  It  seemed 
the  more  singular,  as  the  speaker,  like  most 
abstracted  men,  had  hitherto  always  stu- 
diously ignored  the  future,  in  their  daily  in- 
tercourse. Yet  this  might  have  been  either 
the  habit  of  security  or  the  caution  of  doubt. 
Whatever  it  was,  it  was  some  sudden  distur- 
bance of  Don  Juan's  equanimity,  as  discon- 
certing to  himself  as  it  was  to  Clarence.  So 
conscious  was  the  boy  of  this  that,  without 
replying  to  his  cousin's  question,  but  striv- 
ing in  vain  to  recall  some  delinquency  of 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  195 

his   own,   he   asked,  with   his  usual  boyish 
directness  — 

"  Has  anything  happened  ?     Have  I  done   / 
anything  wrong  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  returned  Don  Juan  hurriedly. 
"  But,  you  see,  it 's  time  that  you  should 
think  of  your  future  —  or  at  least  prepare 
for  it.  I  mean  you  ought  to  have  some  more 
regular  education.  You  will  have  to  go  to 
school.  It 's  too  bad,"  he  added  fretfully, 
with  a  certain  impatient  forgetfulness  of 
Clarence's  presence,  and  as  if  following  his 
own  thought.  "  Just  as  you  are  becoming 
of  service  to  me,  and  justifying  your  ridicu- 
lous position  here  —  and  all  this  d d  non- 
sense that 's  gone  before  —  I  mean,  of  course, 
Clarence,"  he  interrupted  himself,  catching 
sight  of  the  boy's  whitening  cheek  and  dark- 
ening eye,  "  I  mean,  you  know  —  this  ridicu- 
lousness of  my  keeping  you  from  school  at 
your  age,  and  trying  to  teach  you  myself  — 
don't  you  see." 

"  You  think  it  is  —  ridiculous,"  repeated 
Clarence,  with  dogged  persistency. 


196  A    WAIF   OF    THE  PLAINS. 

"  I  mean  /  am  ridiculous,"  said  Don  Juan 
hastily.  "  There  !  there  !  let 's  say  no  more 
about  it.  To-morrow  we'll  ride  over  to 
San  Jose  and  see  the  Father  Secretary  at 
the  Jesuits'  College  about  your  entering  at 
once.  It 's  a  good  school,  and  you  '11  always 
be  near  the  rancho !  "  And  so  the  inter- 
view ended. 

I  am  afraid  that  Clarence's  first  idea  was 
to  run  away.  There  are  few  experiences 
more  crushing  to  an  ingenuous  nature  than 
the  sudden  revelation  of  the  aspect  in  which 
it  is  regarded  by  others.  The  imfpj^unate 
^  Clarence,  conscious  only  of  his  loyalty  to  his 
cousin's  interest  and  what  he  believed  were 
the  duties  of  his  position,  awoke  to  find  that 
position  "  ridiculous."  In  an  afternoon's 
gloomy  ride  through  the  lonely  hills,  and 
later  in  the  sleepless  solitude  of  his  room  at 
night,  he  concluded  that  his  cousin  was  right. 
HH^  would  go  to  school ;  he  would  study 
hard  —  so  hard  that  in  a  little,  a  very  little 
while,  he  could  make  a  living  for  himself. 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  197 

He  awoke  contented.  It  was  the  bless- 
ing of  youth  that  this  resolve  and  execution 
seemed  as  one  and  the  same  thing. 

The  next  day  found  him  installed  as  a 
pupil  and  boarder  in  the  college.  Don 
Juan's  position  and  Spanish  predilections 
naturally  made  his  relation  acceptable  to  the 
faculty ;  but  Clarence  could  not  help  per- 
ceiving that  Father  Sobriente,  the  Principal, 
regarded  him  at  times  with  a  thoughtful  cu- 
riosity that  made  him  suspect  that  his  cousin 
had  especially  bespoken  that  attention,  and 
that  he  occasionally  questioned  him  on  his 
antecedents  in  a  way  that  made  him  dread 
a  renewal  of  the  old  questioning  about  his 
progenitor.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  polished, 
cultivated  man  ;  yet,  in  the  characteristic, 
material  criticism  of  youth,  I  am  afraid  that 
Clarence  chiefly  identified  him  as  a  priest 
with  large  hands,  whose  soft  palms  seemed 
to  be  cushioned  with  kindness,  and  whose 
equally  large  feet,  encased  in  extraordinary 
shapeless  shoes  of  undyed  leather,  seemed  to 


198  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

tread  down  noiselessly  —  rather  than  to  os- 
tentatiously crush  —  the  obstacles  that  beset 
the  path  of  the  young  student.  In  the  clois- 
tered galleries  of  the  court-yard  Clarence 
sometimes  felt  himself  borne  down  by  the 
protecting  weight  of  this  paternal  hand ;  in 
the  midnight  silence  of  the  dormitory  he 
fancied  he  was  often  conscious  of  the  soft 
browsing  tread  and  snuffly  muffled  breathing 
of  his  elephantine-footed  mentor. 
Y  His  relations  with  his  school-fellows  were 
at  first  far  from  pleasant.  Whether  they 
suspected  favoritism ;  whether  they  resented 
that  old  and  unsympathetic  manner  which 
sprang  from  his  habits  of  association  with 
his  elders ;  or  whether  they  rested  their 
objections  on  the  broader  grounds  of  his 
being  a  stranger,  I  do  not  know,  but  they 
presently  passed  from  cruel  sneers  to  physi- 
cal opposition.  It  was  then  found  that  this 
gentle  and  reserved  youth  had  retained  cer- 
tain objectionable,  rude,  direct,  rustic  qual- 
ities of  fist  and  foot,  and  that,  violating 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  199 

all  rules  and  disdaining  the  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance of  school-boy  warfare,  of  which 
he  knew  nothing,  he  simply  thrashed  a  few 
of  his  equals  out  of  hand,  with  or  without 
cereniony,  as  the  occasion  or  the  insult  hap- 
pened. In  this-  emergency  one  of  the  sen- 
iors was  selected  to  teach  this  youthful  sav- 
age his  proper  position.  A  challenge  was 
given,  and  accepted  by  Clarence  with  a  fe- 
verish alacrity  that  surprised  himself  as 
much  as  his  adversary.  This  was  a  youth 
of  eighteen,  his  superior  in  size  and  skill. 
The  first  blow  bathed  Clarence's  face  in  his 
own  blood.  But  the  sanguinary 'chrism,  to 
the  alarm  of  the  spectators,  effected  an  in- 
stantaneous and  unhallowed  change  in  the 
boy.  Instantly  closing  with  his  adversary, 
he  sprang  at  his  throat  like  an  animal,  and 
locking  his  arm  around  his  neck  began  to 
strangle  him.  Blind  to  the  blows  that 
rained  upon  him,  he  eventually  bore  his 
staggering  enemy  by  sheer  onset  and  sur- 
prise to  the  earth.  Amidst  the  general 


200  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

alarm,  the  strength  of  half  a  dozen  hastily 
summoned  teachers  was  necessary  to  unlock 
his  hold.  Even  then  he  struggled  to  renew 
the  conflict.  But  his  adversary  had  disap- 
peared, and  from  that  day~?orward  Clarence 
was  never  again  molested. 

Seated  before  Father  Sobriente  in  the  in- 
firmary, with  swollen  and  bandaged  face, 
and  eyes  that  still  seemed  to  see  everything 
in  the  murky  light  of  his  own  blood,  Clar- 
ence felt  the  soft  weight  of  the  father's  hand 
upon  his  knee. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  priest  gently,  "  you 
are  not  of  our  religion,  or  I  should  claim  as 
a  right  to  ask  a  question  of  your  own  heart 
at  this  moment.  But  as  to  a  good  friend, 
Claro,  a  good  friend,"  he  continued,  patting 
the  boy's  knee,  "you  will  tell 'me,  old  Fa- 
ther Sobrente,  frankly  and  truthfully,  as  is 
your  habit,  one  little  thing.  Were  you  not 
afraid?" 

"  No,"  said  Clarence  doggedly.  "  I  '11  lick 
him  again  to-morrow." 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  201 

"  Softly,  my  son !  It  was  not  of  Mm  I 
speak,  but  of  something  more  terrible  and 
awful.  Were  you  not  afraid  of  —  of  "  —  he 
paused,  and  suddenly  darting  his  clear  eyes 
into  the  very  depths  of  Clarence's  soul, 
added  —  "  of  yourself?  " 

The  boy  started,  shuddered,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  So,  so,"  said  the  priest  gently,"  we  have 
found  our  real  enemy.  Good !  Now,  by 
the  grace  of  God,  my  little  warrior,  we  shall 
fight  Mm  and  conquer." 

Whether  Clarence  profited  by  this  lesson,  ^ 
or  whether  this  brief  exhibition  of  his  qual- 
ity prevented  any  repetition  of  the  cause,  the 
episode  was  soon  forgotten.  As  his  school- 
fellows had  never  been  his  associates  or  con- 
fidants, it  mattered  little  to  him  whether  they 
feared  or  respected  him,  or  were  hypocrit- 
ically obsequious,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
weaker.  His  studies,  at  all  events,  profited 
by  this  lack  of  distraction.  Already  his  two 
years  of  desultory  and  omnivorous  reading 


202  A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

had  given  him  a  facile  familiarity  with  many 
things,  which  left  him  utterly  free  of  the  ti- 
midity, awkwardness,  or  non-interest  of  a  be- 
ginner. His  usually  reserved  manner,  which 
,had  been  lack  of  expression  rather  than  of 
conviction,  had  deceived  his  tutors.  The  au- 
dacity of  a  mind  that  had  never  been  domi- 
nated by  others,  and  owed  no  allegiance  to 
precedent,  made  his  merely  superficial  pro- 
gress something  marvelous. 
I/  At  the  end  of  the  first  year  he  was  a  phe- 
nomenal scholar,  who  seemed  capable  of 
anything.  Nevertheless,  Father  Sobriente 
had  an  interview  with  Don  Juan,  and  as  a 
result  Clarence  was  slightly  kept  back  in 
his  studies,  a  little  more  freedom  from  the 
rules  was  conceded  to  him,  and  he  was  even 
encouraged  to  take  some  diversion.  Of  such 
was  the  privilege  to  visit  the  neighboring 
town  of  Santa  Clara  unrestricted  and  un- 
attended. He  had  always  been  liberally 
furnished  with  pocket-money,  for  which,  in 
his  companionless  state  and  Spartan  habits, 


A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS.  203 

he  had  a  singular  and  unboyish  contempt. 
Nevertheless,  he  always  appeared  dressed 
with  scrupulous  neatness,  and  was  rather 
distinguished-looking  in  his  older  reserve 
and  melancholy  self-reliance. 

Lounging  one  afternoon  along  the  Ala- 
meda,  a  leafy  avenue  set  out  by  the  early 
Mission  Fathers  between  the  village  of  San 
Jose  and  the  convent  of  Santa  Clara,  he  saw 
a  double  file  of  young  girls  from  the  convent 
approaching,  on  their  usual  promenade.  A 
view  of  this  procession  being  the  fondest  am- 
bition of  the  San  Jose  collegian,  and  espe- 
cially interdicted  and  circumvented  by  the 
good  Fathers  attending  the  college  excur- 
sions, Clarence  felt  for  it  the  profound  in- 
difference of  a  boy  who,  in  the  intermediate 
temperate  zone  of  fifteen  years,  thinks  that 
he  is  no  longer  young  and  romantic !  He 
was  passing  them  with  a  careless  glance, 
when  a  pair  of  deep  violet  eyes  caught  his 
own  under  the  broad  shade  of  a  coquettishly 
beribboned  hat,  even  as  it  had  once  looked 


204  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

at  him  from  the  depths  of  a  calico  sun-bon- 
net. Susy  !  He  started,  and  would  have 
spoken  ;  but  with  a  quick  little  gesture  of 
caution  and  a  meaning  glance  at  the  two 
nuns  who  walked  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the 
file,  she  indicated  him  to  follow.  He  did  so 
at  a  respectful  distance,  albeit  wondering. 
A  little  further  on  Susy  dropped  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  was  obliged  to  dart  out  and 
run  back  to  the  end  of  the  file  to  recover  it. 
But  she  gave  another  swift  glance  of  her 
blue  eyes  as  she  snatched  it  up  and  de- 
murely ran  back  to  her  place.  The  proces- 
sion passed  on,  but  when  Clarence  reached 
the  spot  where  she  had  paused  he  saw*  a 
three-cornered  bit  of  paper  lying  in  the 
grass.  He  was  too  discreet  to.  pick  it  up 
while  the  girls  were  still  in  sight,  but  con- 
tinued on,  returning  to  it  later.  It  con- 
tained a  few  words  in  a  school-girl's  hand, 
hastily  scrawled  in  pencil :  "  Come_Jx>  the 
south  wall  near  the  big  pear-tree  at  six." 
Delighted  as  Clarence  felt,  he  was  at  the 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  205 

same  time  embarrassed.  He  could  not  un- 
derstand the  necessity  of  this  mysterious 
rendezvous.  He  knew  that  if  she  was  a 
scholar  she  was  under  certain  conventual 
restraints  ;  but  with  the  privileges  of  his 
position  and  friendship  with  his  teachers,  he 
believed  that  Father  Sobriente  would  easily 
procure  him  an  interview  with  this  old  play- 
fellow, of  whom  he  had  often  spoken,  and 
who  was,  with  himself,  the  sole  survivor  of 
his  tragical  past.  And  trusted  as  he  was 
by  Sobriente,  there  was  something  in  this 
clandestine  though  innocent  rendezvous  that 
went  against  his  loyalty.  Nevertheless,  he 
kept  the  appointment,  and  at  the  stated  time 
was  at  the  south  wall  of  the  convent,  over 
which  the  gnarled  boughs  of  the  distin- 
guishing pear-tree  hung.  Hard  by  in  the 
wall  was  a  grated  wicket  door  that  seemed 
unused. 

Would  she  appear  among  the  boughs  or 
on  the  edge  of  the  wall?  Either  would  be 
like  the  old  Susy.  But  to  his  surprise  he 


206  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

heard  the  sound  of  the  key  turning  in  the 
lock.  The  grated  door  suddenly  swung  on 
its  hinges,  and  Susy  slipped  out.  Grasping 
his  hand,  she  said,  "  Let 's  run,  Clarence," 
and  before  he  could  reply  she  started  off 
with  him  at  a  rapid  pace.  Down  the  lane 
they  flew  —  very  much,  as  it  seemed  to  Clar- 
ence's fancy,  as  they  had  flown  from  the  old 
emigrant  wagon  on  the  prairie,  four  years 
before.  He  glanced  at  the  fluttering,  fairy- 
like  figure  beside  him.  She  had  grown 
taller  and  more  graceful ;  she  was  dressed 
in  exquisite  taste,  with  a  minuteness  of  lux- 
urious detail  that  bespoke  the  spoilt  child ; 
but  there  was  the  same  prodigal  outburst  of 
rippling,  golden  hair  down  her  back  and 
shoulders,  violet  eyes,  capricious  little  mouth, 
and  the  same  delicate  hands  and  feet  he  had 
remembered.  He  would  have  preferred  a 
more  deliberate  survey,  but  with  a  shake  of 
her  head  and  an  hysteric  little  laugh  she 
only  said,  "  Run,  Clarence,  run,"  and  again 
darted  forward.  Arriving  at  the  cross-street, 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  207 

they  turned  the  corner,  and  halted  breath- 
lessly. 

"  But  you  're  not  running  away  from 
school,  Susy,  are  you  ?  "  said  Clarence  anx- 
iously. 

uOnly  a  little  bit.  Just  enough  to  get 
ahead  of  the  other  girls,"  she  said,  rearran- 
ging her  brown  curls  and  tilted  hat.  "  You 
see,  Clarence,"  she  condescended  to  explain, 
with  a  sudden  assumption  of  older  superior- 
ity, "  mother 's  here  at  the  hotel  all  this  week, 
and  I  'm  allowed  to  go  home  every  night, 
like  a  day  scholar.  Only  there  's  three  or 
four  other  girls  that  go  out  at  the  same  time 
with  me,  and  one  of  the  Sisters,  and  to-day 
I  got  ahead  of  'em  just  to  see  you" 

44  But "  —  began  Clarence. 

u  Oh,  it 's  all  right ;  the  other  girls  knew 
it,  and  helped  me.  They  don't  start  out  for 
half  an  hour  yet,  and  they  '11  say  I  Ve  just 
run  ahead,  and  when  they  and  the  Sister  get 
to  the  hotel  I  '11  be  there  already  —  don't 
you  see  ?  " 


208  A    WAIF  OF  TEE  PLAINS. 

"  Yes,"  said  Clarence  dubiously. 

"  And  we  '11  go  to  an  ice-cream  saloon 
now,  sha'n't  we  ?  There  's  a  nice  one  near 
the  hotel.  I  'vegot  some  money,"  she  added 
quickly,  as  Clarence  looked  embarrassed. 

"  So  have  I,"  said  Clarence,  with  a  faint 
accession  of  color.  "  Let  's  go  !  "  She  had 
relinquished  his  hand  to  smooth  out  her 
frock,  and  they  were  walking  side  by  side  at 
a  more  moderate  pace.  "But,"  he  contin- 
ued, clinging  to  his  first  idea  with  masculine 
persistence,  and  anxious  to  assure  his  com- 
panion of  his  power,  of  his  position,  "  I  'm 
in  the  college,  and  Father  Sobriente,  who 
knows  your  lady  superior,  is  a  good  friend 
of  mine  and  gives  me  privileges  ;  and  — 
and  —  when  he  knows  that  you  and  I  used 
to  play  together  —  why,  he  11  fix  it  that  we 
may  see  each  other  whenever  we  want." 

"  Oh  you  silly  !  "  said  Susy.  "  What  !  — 
when  you  're  "  — 


The  young  girl  shot  a  violet  blue  ray  from 


A   WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  209 

under  her  broad  hat.  "  Why  —  when  we  're 
grown  up  now  ?  "  Then  with  a  certain  pre- 
cision, "  Why,  they  're  very  particular  about 
young  gentlemen!  Why,  Clarence,  if  they 
suspected  that  you  and  I  were  "  —  Another 
violet  ray  from  under  the  hat  completed  this 
unfinished  sentence. 

Pleased  and  yet  confused,  Clarence  looked 
straight  ahead  with  deepening  color.  "  Why," 
continued  Susy,  "  Mary  Rogers,  that  was 
walking  with  me,  thought  you  were  ever  so 
old  —  and  a  distinguished  Spaniard !  And 
I,"  she  said  abruptly  —  "  have  n't  I  grown  ? 
Tell  me,  Clarence,"  with  her  old  appealing 
impatience,  "  have 't  I  grown  ?  Do  tell  me !  " 

"  Very  much,"  said  Clarence. 

"  And  is  n't  this  frock  pretty  —  it 's  only 
my  second  best  —  but  I  've  a  prettier  one 
with  lace  all  down  in  front ;  but  is  n't  this 
one  pretty,  Clarence,  tell  me  ?  " 

Clarence  thought  the  frock  and  its  fair 
owner  perfection,  and  said  so.  Whereat 
Susy,  as  if  suddenly  aware  of  the  presence 


210  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

of  passers-by,  assumed  an  air  of  severe  pro- 
priety, dropped  her  hands  by  her  side,  and 
with  an  affected  conscientiousness  walked 
on,  a  little  further  from  Clarence's  side, 
until  they  reached  the  ice-cream  saloon. 

"Get  a  table  near  the  back,  Clarence," 
she  said,  in  a  confidential  whisper,  "  where 
they  can't  see  us  —  and  strawberry,  you 
know,  for  the  lemon  and  vanilla  here  are 
just  horrid ! " 

^They  took  their  seats  in  a  kind  of  rustic 
arbor  in  the  rear  of  the  shop,  which  gave 
them  the  appearance  of  two  youthful  but 
somewhat  over-dressed  and  over-conscious 
shepherds.  There  was  an  interval  of  slight 
awkwardness,  which  Susy  endeavored  to  dis- 
place. "There  has  been,"  she  remarked, 
with  easy  conversational  lightness,  "quite 
an  excitement  about  our  French  teacher 
being  changed.  The  girls  in  our  class  think 
it  most  disgraceful." 

And  this  was  all  she  could  say  after  a  sep- 
aration of  four  years!  Clarence  was  des- 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  211 

perate,  but  as  yet  idealess  and  voiceless. 
At  last,  with  an  effort  over  his  spoon,  he 
gasped  a  floating  recollection :  "  Do  you  still 
like  flapjacks,  Susy?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  with  a  laugh,  "  but  we  don't 
have  them  now." 

"  And  Mose  "  (a  black  pointer,  who  used 
to  yelp  when  Susy  sang),  "does  he  still 
sing  with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  's  been  lost  ever  so  long,"  said  ' 
Susy  composedly ;  "  but  I  ?ve  got  a  New- 
foundland and  a  spaniel  and  a  black  pony ; " 
and  here,  with  a  rapid  inventory  of  her 
other  personal  effects,  she  drifted  into  some 
desultory  details  of  the  devotion  of  her 
adopted  parents,  whom  she  now  readily 
spoke  of  as  "  papa  "  and  "  mamma,"  with 
evidently  no  disturbing  recollection  of  the 
dead.  From  which  it  appeared  that  the 
Peytons  were  very  rich,  and,  in  addition  to 
their  possessions  in  the  lower  country,  owned 
a  ranche  in  Santa  Clara  and  a  house  in  San 
Francisco.  Like  all  children,  her  strongest 


212  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 


_  recent.     In  the 

vain  hope  to  lead  her  bacTf  To  >  tliis  material 
yesterday,  he  said  — 

"  You  remember  Jim  Hooker  ?  " 
"  Oh,  he  ran  away,  when  you  left.  But 
just  think  of  it  !  The  other  day,  when  papa 
and  I  went  into  a  big  restaurant  in  San 
Francisco,  who  should  be  there  waiting  on 
the  table  —  yes,  Clarence,  a  real  waiter  — 
but  Jim  Hooker  !  Papa  spoke  to  him  ;  but 
of  course,"  with  a  slight  elevation  of  her 
pretty  chin,  "  /  could  n't,  you  know  ;  fancy 
—  a  waiter  !  " 

The  story  of  how  Jim  Hooker  had  per- 
sonated him  stopped  short  upon  Clarence's 
lips.  He  could  not  bring  himself  now  to 
add  that  revelation  to  the  contempt  of  his 
small  companion,  which,  in  spite  of  its 
naivete,  somewhat  grated  on  his  sensibilities. 
V  il£laEence,"  she  said,  suddenly  turning 
towards  him  mysteriously,  and  indicating 
the  shopman  and  his  assistants,  "  I  really 
believe  these  people  suspect  us." 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  213 

"  Of  what  ?  "  said  the  practical  Clarence. 

"  Don't  be  silly !  Don't  you  see  how  they 
are  staring  ?  " 

Clarence  was  really  unable  to  detect  the 
least  curiosity  on  the  part  of  the  shopman, 
or  that  any  one  exhibited  the  slightest  con- 
cern in  him  or  his  companion.  But  he  felt 
a  return  of  the  embarrassed  pleasure  he  was 
conscious  of  a  moment  before. 

"  Then  you  're  living  with  your  father  ?Ji- 
said  Susy,  changing  the  subject. 

"You  mean  my  cousin"  said  Clarence, 
smiling.  "You  know  my  father  died  long 
before  I  ever  knew  you." 

"  Yes  ;  that 's  what  you  used  to  say,  Clar- 
ence, but  papa  says  it  is  n't  so."  But  seeing 
the  boy's  wondering  eyes  fixed  on  her  with 
a  troubled  expression,  she  added  quickly, 
"  Oh,  then,  he  is  your  cousin  !  " 

"  Well,  I  think  I  ought  to  know,"  said 
Clarence,  with  a  smile,  that  was,  however, 
far  from  comfortable,  and  a  quick  return  of 
his  old  unpleasant  recollections  of  the  Pey- 


214  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

tons.  "  Why,  I  was  brought  to  him  by  one 
of  his  friends."  And  Clarence  gave  a  rapid 
boyish  summary  of  his  journey  from  Sacra- 
mento, and  Flynn's  discovery  of  the  letter 
addressed  to  Silsbee.  But  before  he  had 
concluded  he  was  conscious  that  Susy  was 
by  no  means  interested  in  these  details,  nor 
in  the  least  affected  by  the  passing  allusion 
to  her  dead  father  and  his  relation  to  Clar- 
ence's misadventures.  With  her  rounded 
chin  in  her  hand,  she  was  slowly  examin- 
ing his  face,  with  a  certain  mischievous  yet 
demure  abstraction.  "  I  tell  you  what,  Clar- 
ence," she  said,  when  he  had  finished,  "  you 
ought  to  make  your  cousin  get  you  one  of 
those  sombreros,  and  a  nice  gold-braided 
serape.  They  'd  just  suit  you.  And  then 
—  then  you  could  ride  up  and  down  the 
Alameda  when  we  are  going  by." 

"  But  I  'm  coming  to  see  you  at  —  at  your 
house,  and  at  the  convent,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"  Father  Sobriente  and  my  cousin  will  fix  it 
all  right." 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  215 

But  Susy  shook  her  head,  with  superior 
wisdom.  "  No  ;  they  must  never  know  our 
secret !  —  neither  papa  nor  mamma,  espe- 
cially mamma.  And  they  must  n't  know 
that  we  've  met  again  —  after  these  years  !  " 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  deep  signifi- 
cance which  Susy's  blue  eyes  gave  to  this 
expression.  After  a  pause  she  went  on  — 

"  No  !  We  must  never  meet  again,  Clar- 
ence, unless  Mary  Rogers  helps.  She  is  my 
best,  my  onliest  friend,  and  older  than  I ; 
having  had  trouble  herself,  and  being  ex- 
pressly forbidden  to  see  him  again.  You 
can  speak  to  her  about  Suzette  —  that 's  my 
name  now  ;  I  was  rechristened  Suzette  Alex- 
andra Peyton  by  mamma.  And  now,  Clar- 
ence," dropping  her  voice  and  glancing 
shyly  around  the  saloon,  "  you  may  kiss  me 
just  once  under  my  hat,  for  good-by."  She 
adroitly  slanted  her  broad  -  brimmed  hat 
towards  the  front  of  the  shop,  and  in  its 
shadow  advanced  her  fresh  young  cheek  to 
Clarence. 


216  A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS. 

*  Coloring  aiid  laughing,  the  boy  pressed 
his  lips  to  it  twice.  Then  Susy  arose,  with 
the  faintest  affectation  of  a  sigh,  shook  out 
her  skirt,  drew  on  her  gloves  with  the  great- 
est gravity,  and  saying,  "  Don't  follow  me 
further  than  the  door  —  they  're  coming  now," 
walked  with  supercilious  dignity  past  the 
preoccupied  proprietor  and  waiters  to  the 
entrance.  Here  she  said,  with  marked  ci- 
vility, "  Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Brant,"  and 
tripped  away  towards  the  hotel.  Clarence 
lingered  for  a  moment  to  look  after  the  lithe 
and  elegant  little  figure,  with  its  shining  un- 
dulations of  liaiFTKat  fell  over  the  back  and 
shoulders  of  her  white  frock  like  a  golden 
mantle,  and  then  turned  away  in  the  oppo- 
site direction. 

\AIe  walked  home  in  a  state,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  of  absurd  perplexity.  There  were 
many  reasons  why  his  encounter  with  Susy 
should  have  been  of  unmixed  pleasure.  She 
had  remembered  him  of  her  own  free  will, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  change  in  her  fortune, 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  217 

had  made  the  first  advances.  Herjjfliibts 
about  her  future  interviews  had  affected  him 
but  little  ;  still  less,  I  fear,  did  he  think  of 
the  other  changes  in  her  character  and  dis- 
position, for  he  was  of  that  age  when  they 
added  only  a  piquancy  and  fascination  to 
her  —  as  of  one  who,  in  spite  of  her  weak- 
ness of  nature,  was  still  devoted  to  him ! 
But  he  was  painfully  conscious  that  this 
meeting  had  revived  in  him  all  the  fears, 
vague  uneasiness,  and  sense  of  wrong  that 
had  haunted  his  first  boyhood,  and  which  he 
thought  he  had  buried  at  El  Refugio  four 
years  ago.  Susy's  allusion  to  his  father  and 
the  reiteration  of  Peyton's  skepticism  awoke 
in  his  older  intellect  the  first  feeling  of  sus- 
picion that  was  compatible  with  his  open 
nature.  Was  this  recurring  reticence  and 
mystery  due  to  any  act  of  his  father's  ?  But, 
looking  back  upon  it  in  after-years,  he  con- 
cluded that  the  incident  of  that  day  was  a 
premonition  rather  than  a  recollection. 


y 


CHAPTER  XL 


WHEN  he  reached  the  college  the  Angelus 
had  long  since  rung.  In  the  corridor  he  met 
one  of  the  Fathers,  who,  instead  of  question- 
ing him,  returned  his  salutation  with  a  grave 
gentleness  that  struck  him.  He  had  turned 
into  Father  Sobriente's  quiet  study  with  the 
intention  of  reporting  himself,  when  he  was 
disturbed  to  find  him  in  consultation  with 
three  or  four  of  the  faculty,  who  seemed  to 
be  thrown  into  some  slight  confusion  by  his 
entrance.  Clarence  was  about  to  retire  hur- 
riedly when  Father  Sobriente,  breaking  up 
the  council  with  a  significant  glance  at  the 
others,  called  him  back.  Confused  and  em- 
barrassed, with  a  dread  of  something  im- 
pending, the  boy  tried  to  avert  it  by  a  hur- 
ried account  of  his  meeting  with  Susy,  and 
his  hopes  of  Father  Sobriente's  counsel  and 


A    WAIF  OF  TEE  PLAINS.  219 

assistance.  Taking  upon  himself  the  idea  of 
suggesting  Susy's  escapade,  he  confessed  the 
fault.  The  old  man  gazed  into  his  frank 
eyes  with  a  thoughtful,  half-compassionate 
smile.  "  I  was  just  thinking  of  giving  you 
a  holiday  with  —  witlTDon  Juan  Kobinson." 
The  unusual  substitution  of  this  final  title 
for  the  habitual  "  your  cousin  "  struck  Clar- 
ence uneasily.  "  But  we  will  speak  of  that 
later.  Sit  down^my  son ;  I  am  not  busy. 
We  shall  talk  a  little.  Father  Pedro  says 
you  are  getting  on  fluently  with  your  trans- 
lations. That  is  excellent,  my  son,  excel- 
lent." 

Clarence's  face  beamed  with  relief  and 
pleasure.  His  vague  fears  began  to  dissi- 
pate. 

"  And  you  translate  even  from  dictation ! 
Good  !  We  have  an  hour  to  spare,  and  you 
shall  give  to  me  a  specimen  of  your  skill. 
Eh  ?  Good !  I  will  walk  here  and  dictate  to 
you  in  my  poor  English,  and  you  shall  sit 
)here  and  render  it  to  me  in  your  good 


220  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

Spanish.  Eh  ?  So  we  shall  amuse  and  in- 
struct ourselves." 

Clarence  smiled.  These  sporadic  moments 
of  instruction  and  admonition  were  not  un- 
usual to  the  good  Father.  He  cheerfully 
seated  himself  at  the  Padre's  table  before  a 
blank  sheet  of  paper,  with  a  pen  in  his  hand. 
Father  Sobriente  paced  the  apartment,  with 
his  usual  heavy  but  noiseless  tread.  To  his 
surprise,  the  good  priest,  after  an  exhaustive 
pinch  of  snuff,  blew  his  nose,  and  began,  in 
his  most  lugubrious  style  of  pulpit  exhorta- 
tion :  — 

"  It  has  been  written  that  the  sins  of  the 
father  shall  be  visited  upon  the  children,  and 
the  unthinking  and  worldly  have  sought  ref- 
uge from  this  law  by  declaring  it  harsh  and 
cruel.  Miserable  and  blind!  For  do  we 
not  see  that  the  wicked  man,  who  in  the 
pride  of  his  power  and  vainglory  is  willing 
to  risk  punishment  to  himself — and  be- 
lieves it  to  be  courage  —  must  pause  before 
the  awful  mandate  that  condemns  an  equal 


A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS.  221 

suffering  to  those  he  loves,  which  he  can- 
not withhold  or  suffer  for  ?  In  the  spectacle 
of  these  innocents  struggling  against  dis- 
grace, perhaps  disease,  poverty,  or  deser- 
tion, what  avails  his  haughty,  all-defying 
spirit  ?  Let  us  imagine,  Clarence." 

fc'  Sir  ?  "  said  the  literal  Clarence,  pausing 
in  his  exercise. 

"  I  mean,"  continued  the  priest,  with  a 
slight  cough,  ulet  the  thoughtful  man  pic- 
ture a  father :  a  desperate,  self-willed  man, 
who  scorned  the  laws  of  God  and  society  — 
keeping  only  faith  with  a  miserable  subter- 
fuge he  called  '  honor,'  and  relying  only 
on  his  own  courage  and  his  knowledge  of 
human  weakness.  Imagine  him  cruel  and 
bloody  —  a  gambler  by  profession,  an  out- 
law among  men,  an  outcast  from  the  Church ; 
voluntarily  abandoning  friends  and  family, 
—  the  wife  he  should  have  cherished,  the  son 
he  should  have  reared  and  educated  —  for 
the  gratification  of  his  deadly  passions. 
Yet  imagine  that  man  suddenly  confronted 


222  A    WAIF  OF   THE  PLAINS. 

with  the  thought  of  that  heritage  of  shame 
and  disgust  which  he  had  brought  upon  his 
innocent  offspring  —  to  whom  he  cannot 
give  even  his  own  desperate  recklessness  to 
sustain  its  vicarious  suffering.  What  must 
be  the  feelings  of  a  parent  "  — 

"  Father  Sobriente,"  said  Clarence  softly. 

To  the  boy's  surprise,  scarcely  had  he 
spoken  when  the  soft  protecting  palm  of  the 
priest  was  already  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
the  snuffy  but  kindly  upper  lip,  trembling 
with  some  strange  emotion,  close  beside  his 
cheek. 

"  What  is  it,  Clarence  ? "  he  said  hur- 
riedly. "  Speak,  my  son,  without  fear ! 
You  would  ask  "  — 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  if  '  padre  '  takes 
a  masculine  verb  here,"  replied  Clarence 
naively. 

Father  Sobriente  blew  his  nose  violently. 
"  Truly  —  though  used  for  either  gender, 
by  the  context  masculine,"  he  responded 
gravely.  "Ah,"  he  added,  leaning  over 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  223 

Clarence,  and  scanning  his  work  hastily, 
"  Good,  very  good !  And  now,  possibly," 
he  continued,  passing  his  hand  like  a  damp 
sponge  over  his  heated  brow,  "  we  shall  re- 
verse our  exercise.  I  shall  deliver  to  you  in 
Spanish  what  you  shall  render  back  in  Eng- 
lish, eh  ?  And  —  let  us  consider  —  we  shall 
make  something  more  familiar  and  narra- 
tive, eh?  " 

To  this  Clarence,  somewhat  bored  by 
these  present  solemn  abstractions,  assented 
gladly,  and  took  up  his  pen.  Father  Sobri- 
ente,  resuming  his  noiseless  pacing,  began : 

"  On  the  fertile,  plains  of  Guadalajara 
lived  a  certain  caballero,  possessed  of  flocks 
and  lands,  and  a  wife  and  son.  But,  being 
also  possessed  of  a  fiery  and  roving  nature, 
he  did  not  value  them  as  he  did  perilous  ad- 
venture, feats  of  arms,  and  sanguinary  en- 
counters. To  this  may  be  added  riotous  ex- 
cesses, gambling  and  drunkenness,  which  in 
time  decreased  his  patrimony,  even  as  his 
rebellious  and  quarrelsome  spirit  had  alien- 


224  A   WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

ated  his  family  and  neighbors.  His  wife, 
borne  down  by  shame  and  sorrow,  died 
while  her  son  was  still  an  infant.  In  a  fit 
of  equal  remorse  and  recklessness  the  cabal- 
lero  married  again  within  the  year.  But 
the  new  wife  was  of  a  temper  and  bearing 
as  bitter  as  her  consort.  Violent  quarrels 
ensued  between  them,  ending  in  the  husband 
abandoning  his  wife  and  son,  and  leaving 
St.  Louis  —  I  should  say  Guadalajara  —  for, 
ever.  Joining  some  adventurers  in  a  foreign 
land,  under  an  assumed  name,  he  pursued 
his  reckless  course,  until,  by  one  or  two  acts 
of  outlawry,  he  made  his  return  to  civili- 
zation impossible.  The  deserted  wife  and 
step-mother  of  his  child  coldly  accepted  the 
situation,  forbidding  his  name  to  be  spoken 
again  in  her  presence,  announced  that  he 
was  dead,  and  kept  the  knowledge  of  his  ex- 
istence from  his  own  son,  whom  she  placed 
under  the  charge  of  her  sister.  But  the  sis- 
ter managed  to  secretly  communicate  with 
the  outlawed  father,  and,  under  a  pretext, 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  225 

arranged  between  them,  of  sending  the  boy 
to  another  relation,  actually  dispatched  the 
innocent  child  to  his  unworthy  parent. 
Perhaps  stirred  by  remorse,  the  infamous 
man  "  — 

"  Stop !  "  said  Clarence  suddenly. 

He  had  thrown  down  his  pen,  and  was 
standing  erect  and  rigid  before  the  Father. 

"You  are  trying  to  tell  me  something, 
Father  Sobriente,"  he  said,  with  an  effort. 
"  Speak  out,  I  implore  you.  I  can  stand 
anything  but  this  mystery.  I  am  no  longer 
a  child.  I  have  a  right  to  know  all.  This 
that  you  are  telling  me  is  no  fable  —  I  see 
it  in  your  face,  Father  Sobriente ;  it  is  the 
story  of  —  of  "  — 

"  Your  father,  Clarence,"  said  the  priest, 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

The  boy  drew  back,  with  a  white  face. 
"  My  father  !  "  he  repeated.  "  Living,  or 
dead?" 

"  Living,  when  you  first  left  your  home," 
said  the  old  man  hurriedly,  seizing^  Clar- 


226  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

ence's  hand,  "  for  it  was  he  who  in  the  name 
of  your  cousin  sent  for  you.  Living  —  yes, 
while  you  were  here,  for  it  was  he  who  for 
the  past  three  years  stood  in  the  shadow  of 
this  assumed  cousin,  Don  Juan,  and  at  last 
sent  you  to  this  school.  Living,  Clarence, 
yes ;  but  living  under  a  name  and  reputa- 
tion that  would  have  blasted  you !  And 
now  dead — dead  in  Mexico,  shot  as  an 
insurgent  and  in  a  still  desperate  career ! 
May  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! " 

"  Dead  !  "  repeated  Clarence,  trembling, 
"  only  now  ?  " 

"  The  news  of  the  insurrection  and  his 
fate  came  only  an  hour  since,"  continued  the 
Padre  quickly ;  "his  complicity  with  it  and 
his  identity  were  known  only  to  Don  Juan. 
He  would  have  spared  you  any  knowledge 
of  the  truth,  even  as  this  dead  man  would ; 
but  I  and  my  brothers  thought  otherwise. 
I  have  broken  it  to  you  badly,  my  son,  but 
forgive  me  ?  " 

An  hysterical  laugh  broke  from  Clarence, 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  227 

and  the  priest  recoiled  before  him.  "  For- 
give you  !  What  was  this  mantojne  ?  "  lie 
said,  with  boyish  vehemence.  "  He  never 
loved  me !  He  deserted  me ;  he  made  my 
life  a  lie.  He  never  sought  me,  came  near 
me,  or  stretched  a  hand  to  me  that  I  could 
take  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  said  the  priest,  with  a 
horrified  look,  laying  his  huge  hand  upon 
the  boy's  shoulder  and  bearing  him  down  to 
his  seat.  "  You  know  not  what  you  say. 
Think  —  think,  Clarence  !  Was  there  none 
of  all  those  who  have  befriended  you  —  who 
were  kind  to  you  in  your  wanderings  —  to 
whom  your  heart  turned  unconsciously? 
Think,  Clarence  !  You  yourself  have  spoken 
to  me  of  such  a  one.  Let  your  heart  speak 
again,  for  his  sake  —  for  the  sake  of  the 
dead." 

A  gentlerjight  suffused  the  boy's  eyes, 
and  he  started.  Catching  convulsively  at 
his  companion's  sleeve,  he  said  in  an  eager, 
boyish  whisper,  "  There  was  one,  a  wicked, 


V 


228  A    WAIF   OF   THE  PLAINS. 

desperate  man,  whom  they  all  feared  — 
J^Jynn,  who  brought  me  from  the  mines. 
Yes,  I  thought  that  he  was  my  cousin's  loyal 
friend  —  more  than  all  the  rest ;  and  I  told 
him  everything  —  all,  that  I  never  told  the 
man  I  thought  my  cousin,  or  any  one,  or 
even  you ;  and  I  think,  I  think,  Father,  I 
liked  him  best  of  all.  I  thought  since  it 
was  wrong,"  he  continued,  with  a  trembling 
smile,  "  for  I  was  foolishly  fond  even  of  the 
way  the  others  feared  him,  he  that  I  feared 
not,  and  who  was  so  kind  to  me.  Yet  he, 
too,  left  me  without  a  word,  and  when  I 
would  have  followed  him "  —  But  the 
boy  broke  down,  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

"No,  no,"  said  Father  Sobriente,  with 
eager  persistence,  "that  was  his  foolish 
pride  to  spare  you  the  knowledge  of  your 
kinship  with  one  so  feared,  and  part  of  the 
blind  and  mistaken  penance  he  had  laid 
upon  himself.  For  even  at  that  moment  of 
your  boyish  indignation,  he  never  was  so 


V 


A    WAIF   OF  THE  PLAINS.  229 

fond  of  you  as  then.  Yes,  my  poor  boy, 
this  man,  to  whom  God  led  your  wandering 
feet  at  Deadman's  Gulch;  the  man  who 
brought  you  here,  and  by  some  secret  hold 
—  I  know  not  what  —  on  Don  Juan's  past, 
persuaded  him  to  assume  to  be  your  rela- 
tion ;  this  man  Flynn,  this  Jackson  Brant 
the  gambler,  this  Hamilton  Brant  the  out- 
law—  vias  your  father  !  Ah,  yes  !  Weep 
on,  my  son  ;  each  tear  of  love  and  forgive- 
ness from  thee  hath  vicarious  power  to  wash 
away  his  sin." 

With  a  single  sweep  of  his  protecting 
hand  he  drew  Clarence  towards  his  breast, 
until  the  boy  slowly  sank  upon  his  knees  at 
his  feet.  Then,  lifting  his  eyes  towards  the 
ceiling,  he  said  softly  in  an  older  tongue, 
"And  thou,  too,  unhappy  and  perturbed 
spirit,  rest !  "-— " 

It  was  nearly  dawn  when  the  good  Padre 
wiped  the  last  tears  from  Clarence's  clearer 
eyes.  "  And  now,  my  son,"  he  said,  with  a 


230  A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

gentle  smile,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  "  let  us 
not  forget  the  living.  Although  your  step- 
mother has,  through  her  own  act,  no  legal 
claim  upon  you,  far  be  it  from  me  to  in- 
dicate your  attitude  towards  her.  Enough 
that  you  are  independent."  He  turned,  and, 
opening  a  drawer  in  his  secretaire,  took  out 
a  bank-book,  and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of 
the  wondering  boy. 

"  It  was  his  wish,  Clarence,  that  even 
after  his  death  you  should  never  have  to 
prove  your  kinship  to  claim  your  rights. 
Taking  advantage  of  the  boyish  deposit  you 
had  left  with  Mr.  Garden  at  the  bank,  with 
his  connivance  and  in  your  name  he  added 
to  it,  month  by  month  and  year  by  year ; 
Mr.  Garden  cheerfully  accepting  the  trust 
and  management  of  the  fund.  The  seed 
thus  sown  has  produced  a  thousandfold, 
Clarence,  beyond  all  expectations.  You  are 
not  only  free,  my  son,  but  of  yourself  and 
in  whatever  name  you  choose  —  your  own 
master." 


A    WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS.  231 

"  I  shall  keep  my  father's  name,"  said  the 
boy  simply. 

"  Amen !  "  said  Father  Sobriente. 

Here  closes  the  chronicle  of  Clarence 
Brant's  boyhood.  How  he  sustained  his 
name  and  independence  in  after-years,  and 
who,  of  those  already  mentioned  in  these 
pages,  helped  him  to  make  or  mar  it,  may 
be  a  matter  for  future  record. 


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